


i'm still heere

by hsulove



Category: Be More Chill - Iconis/Tracz, Be More Chill - Ned Vizinni
Genre: Anyways, CRITIQUE IS VERY ENCOURAGED BTW, F/M, M/M, Multi, and i actually really liked it so i posted it, and im still heere was born, like be as honest as you want, okay so basically... if you read the description yall know whats going on, sorry my updates take like a month im doing my best, this is basically like a ton of headcanons placed into bmc actually, this started by me rewriting the more than survive scene of bmc to help advance my writing skills, with some extra scenes lmao
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-05-18
Updated: 2019-05-18
Packaged: 2019-08-19 08:23:41
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 7
Words: 32,222
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16530932
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hsulove/pseuds/hsulove
Summary: jeremy heere is your average high school outcast. an awkward, anxious, cardigan-wearing loser, all he wants to do is make it through the day without being harassed or bothered by his popular peers. when he finds out about the squip, a supercomputer that implants in your brain and has the ability to teach you how to be cool, he jumps at the opportunity to get one. and soon, jeremy starts to climb up the totem pole of popularity, no longer being seen as a geeky wimp, but instead a cool, interesting guy who hangs with the coolest people in school. but after a few not-so-cool encounters with some people who aren't exactly cool with the way he's running the show, jeremy learns that trusting untested technology with your every move isn't exactly the wisest choice, and, well, to put it bluntly, all hell breaks loose from there.or, simply : julien rewrites be more chill and changes the plot





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> trigger warnings for chapter: some things characters say may make some readers uncomfortable. no major triggers

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> trigger warnings : f*ggot slur

I notice everything.

I notice how the GoPro attached to the back of Dustin Kropp’s backpack is always on and recording everything that goes on behind him, ready to capture whatever fistfight or Juul trick or drug deal is waiting to be filmed (though Dustin himself is usually the one doing said drug deals). I notice how Ryu Atborough has that one dread longer than the others, the black one with two white beads on the end, which he thinks is cool, when in reality it’s just really ugly. I notice how Thalia Salazar’s sweater loses an eye or a tooth every time she wears it, so that now it doesn’t even resemble a monster anymore, just a sad pre-teen vampire.

I notice when people give me weird looks when I’m walking down the hallway. I notice when they point and laugh at me in Mr. Gretch’s class and I notice when people whisper about me from a few desks behind, because my ears do this thing where they tune into any conversation that seems to be even slightly related to me, because even though most of the time they’re talking about something not at all related to me and are most definitely not insulting me, there are those times where people call me names and make fun of me when I’m right there because they think I’m not listening. But they’re wrong. I’m always listening. I’m wired.

Like that one time, when Jenna Rolan told everyone sitting within ten feet of her that I wrote this random girl a love letter, because she overheard me once complimenting her shirt, back when I still had the confidence necessary to do that (it wasn’t in an awkward trying-to-make-a-move way, either, like she made it seem. Her shirt had the solar system embroidered on it. It was cool). So, naturally, everyone called me a stalker and a creep and the girl wouldn’t even look at me in the hall and smile at me like she used to, even though we were never really friends. Which sucked. Stuff like that always sucks.

Or that other time, where she told everyone that I would eavesdrop on their conversations during class and write them in a notebook because apparently I would get off to them or something, when in reality I would only tune in if I thought I heard my name, or some nickname commonly associated with it. Or when Jenna was literally yelling some fake story because, seriously, how can I _not_ listen to that? Jenna’s loud. And I would only write something down when it was a tally next to one of the categories on the Humiliation Sheets I used to have when I was fifteen. Obviously, I burned almost all of them after Jenna started those rumors, because I couldn’t decide whether being the victim of a shitty rumor or telling the whole Sophomore grade that I documented every time someone insulted me in an old notebook was more horrible for me to endure. 

I’m floating through the bright and alive hallways of Middle Borough High School at 11:15 in the morning, running on two hours of sleep and (so far) three cups of coffee, which is just making me feel really sick, but whatever. I’m not gonna pass out in the middle of class, so as far as I’m concerned, I’m doing fine. The last thing I need right now is to pass out in Ms. Greene’s class and get yelled at in front of everybody, considering how bad my day’s going already (Mr. Reyes decided that today would be a great day to slap a pop quiz on our desks about a topic we’ve literally never learned before, and I already know I completely bombed it).

I carefully navigate through the dangerous halls, keeping my eyes glued to the red Converse sneakers on my feet, which are brand new, so I’m usually staring at them anyways, because I don’t want them to get dirty yet, or ever, really, because I like them. I glance up every now and again, just to make sure I don’t bump into anyone (specifically Ryu, because even God can’t save you if you bump into Ryu). Speaking of Ryu, he’s standing in his usual spot, right against the wall next to the bathrooms with his posse. He’s adjusting his black dread, the one long strand very visible among the rest, an inch or two longer than the others with those ugly white beads on the end. It’s hideous. But, for whatever reason, he thinks it’s cool, and since Ryu’s popular, that means the majority of the school thinks it’s cool. Despite how ugly it is. That’s high school logic for you. Uh, my high school, anyway.

Ryu’s standing next to Mark Jackson and Jackson Marks, who probably have the most unfortunate names in the world considering they’re friends. Oh, and then there’s Dustin Kropp. On first glance, you probably wouldn’t even loop him in with people like Ryu and Mark, but he’s in their friend group too. I mean, I can’t exactly blame you if you didn’t put them together right away. I’ve never really seen him talk to any of them unless he’s forced to. He’s normally standing a few feet away listening to Lil Peep really, really loudly out of his AirPods looking like he doesn’t belong. Like he is right now.

It’s honestly kind of sad, now that I think about it. I mean, if you really pay attention to the way Dustin’s “friends” treat him, it’s no wonder why he normally doesn’t stand too close to them when they’re loitering in the hallway. I once overheard Ryu saying that he only keeps Dustin around to “get some of that discounted buzz, bruh!” which is disgusting, but, I mean, I don’t want to be that one guy who told Dustin Kropp that all his friends hate him, because I feel like that would ruin his day. Or week. Or month. Which isn’t something I want to do to him. I mean, I’m sure Dustin’s got real friends, too. From what I can tell, he’s sweet and loud and funny and basically everything else normal people would want in a friend, and he has the added bonus of harboring a lot of drugs and alcohol. So I really don’t understand why he chooses to hang out with assholes like Mark and Ryu and Jackson.

I turn my gaze away from Ryu and his crew and start heading for my locker, adjusting the straps of my backpack so they aren’t completely straining my shoulders and re-fixing my gaze on my shoes. I look up once I start to near my locker and stop dead in my tracks almost immediately.

Chloe Valentine, the most popular girl in school (and, according to gossip, the hottest girl in school, too) is leaning right against my locker, her skinny arms crossed in front of her and an expression plastered across her fair face that I can only describe as a mix between annoyance and anger. Or maybe jealousy? Actually, now that I’m thinking about it, that might just be Chloe’s resting face. You can never really tell with her.

Chloe’s what I suppose I could describe as a stereotypical “mean girl.” You know, like, Regina George? From Mean Girls? Yeah, she’s reincarnated in Chloe Valentine. She’s this terrifyingly strong girl with blonde hair and long eyelashes and hoop earrings so big they rest on her shoulders. She’s crass, she’s confident, she’s powerful, she’s got it all. I’m not gonna lie, she actually sort of scares me a little. For someone who looks like they can’t weigh more than one fifteen, she can sure fuck somebody up in a fight. 

“Chloe, come on. He’s a dumpster fire for breaking up with you! You can do so much better than Jake Dillinger, you know! I mean, there’s not a single person in the school who _doesn’t_ want you!” Then there’s Brooke Lohst, Chloe’s plus one. In my entire high school career, I don’t think I’ve ever seen one of them without the other at their side. Brooke is the polar opposite of Chloe. Instead of being a supreme bitch, she’s sweet, and apparently a little insecure. Jake and Chloe broke up a week ago, and ever since she first heard, Brooke’s been doing all she can to comfort her best friend about the breakup. Hugging her, talking to her, giving her a lot of compliments, trying to set her up with new people, doing whatever she could to cheer her up… to no avail. “I… I mean, um, besides the straight girls, and the gay guys, but, um, that’s nothing personal, you know? But everyone else would jump at a chance to date you! So cheer up! Why be sad about one boy when you can be--”

 _“BROOKE!”_ Chloe yells. Brooke jumps back, her wavy, blonde hair bouncing on her shoulders as she presses herself against the lockers. “You. Are. Not. Helping.”

“I’m sorry!” Brooke says loudly, almost frantically. “I’m just trying to--.”

“Yeah, well, you’re doing a _shit_ job at trying,” Chloe snaps, towering over Brooke as she verbally spits all over her. Brooke literally sinks down against the lockers, with shame and guilt, I guess because she wasn’t able to accomplish the impossible task of cheering Chloe Valentine up. 

Brooke hesitates, before reaching up and wrapping her arms around Chloe, giving her a warm hug. “I’m sorry.”

Chloe opens her mouth to say something, but is cut off when she hears another voice yelling her name from across the hall.

“Chloe!” It’s Jenna Rolan. Somehow, she’s easier to miss than Dustin when you’re walking down the hallway, despite her flashy, neon, extremely over-the-top clothing style. Sometimes I almost feel bad after completely missing her in the hallway. I mean, it really shouldn’t be that hard to miss someone who wears the most obnoxiously bright and multicolored outfits I’ve ever seen. Yet I somehow still do. “I heard about you and Jake, I--”

“Not now, Jenna,” Chloe snaps, shoving Brooke away and slamming her locker door closed. There’s at least twenty different pictures of Drake hanging up in there, which is a little concerning.

“Wait! I just wanted to let you know, I… I saw him flirting,” Jenna says, standing up tall and crossing her arms in front of her chest. “With _Madeline.”_

Chloe turns around slowly to look at Jenna, a terrifying expression of anger and jealousy and hatred all rolled into one present on her face, _“What?”_

Jenna loves to talk about Madeline. Some days, she’s the only thing she talks about. From what I’ve gathered at this point, Madeline’s this super French girl who for the most part seems like a pretty sweet person who just so happens to have an attraction to Jake Dillinger, just like the majority of the school does. Only this time she’s managed to get Jake’s attention, which just doesn’t sit well with Chloe. Which doesn’t really come as a surprise to me. Chloe’s always kind of been a psycho when it comes to stuff like that.

“Yeah,” Jenna nods, crossing her arms in front of her fur jacket. “Said something about if she can beat him at pool, he’d have sex with her… and then I heard him say that he was gonna lose on purpose so they can bang.”

Chloe opens her unlocked locker just to slam it closed again before looking at Jenna. “Tell. Me. Everything. _Now.”_

Jenna nods eagerly as she starts walking down the hallway, pride shooting off of her face, like she’s proud of how she was able to make Chloe pay attention to her. Chloe follows Jenna, grabbing Brooke’s hand almost forcefully and literally dragging her down the hall with her.

I breathe a sigh of relief when they finally leave, walking up to my locker. I jump when I feel my shoulder violently make contact with another, much more muscle-y shoulder. The head the shoulder is attached to spins around, an aggressive expression planted on its face. I immediately recognize the person I just bumped into and nearly die on the spot.

“Yo, don’t touch me, Tall-Ass!”

It’s Rich Goranski.

Now, bumping into Ryu is terrifying enough, but Rich? He’s a completely different story. Yeah, Ryu might beat you up every day for a week for running into him on accident, but Rich will murder you right on the spot.

I don’t even know where to begin with Rich Goranski. I guess, to put it simply, he’s every high school outcast’s worst nightmare. I swear, I must be his favorite person to mess with. If I tried to write a list of all the things he’s done to me, I’d run out of paper within five minutes. He’s dumped buckets of water on me, pulled glitter out of his pockets and thrown it on me, shoved me into lockers and walls with no word of warning whatsoever… you name it, he’s probably done it. 

“I’m sorry, I was just trying to get to my--” I try to explain.

“Save the excuses, bitch. I saw what you were doing back there,” Rich says, grabbing my wrist and slamming me face-first into the lockers. They’re cold and metal and hard. “What did I tell you about creeping on other people’s convos?”

Rich is almost a full head shorter than me, but that doesn’t at all make him less of a threat in my eyes. He’s freakishly buff and has muscles bigger than most of the six feet tall football players. His blonde hair is slicked back with an ungodly amount of gel, so it’s more like a solid block than a soft head of hair. And there’s this streak of red down the middle of it, like a rooster. 

Rich squeezes my wrists so hard it feels like he’s stopping the bloodflow that’s supposed to be going through my veins.

“I-- ow! I wasn’t--” I try to squirm away from Rich, but I don’t get far. Rich digs his nails into the flesh of my wrist. They’re sharp.

“Didn’t I warn you last time?” Rich says, staring up at me with this sinister, foreboding expression. “Mind your fucking business, Cheesedick. Don’t make me punch you again.”

“I-I wasn’t eavesdropping, Rich,” I say, my voice shaking with every syllable. Rich squints and glares at me as he slams me against the lockers again.

“Don’t fucking lie to me,” He yells. My breath hitches out of fear. 

“I’m not--” I start.

 _“Hey!”_ Rich yells, pulling me down to his level. “What the fuck did I just fucking say?! _Don’t. Lie. To. Me.”_

“I… I, u-uh…” I never knew what to say in situations like this. My whole body kind of just freezes up. Especially around Rich, who probably has more muscle mass in his left kneecap than I do in my entire body.

“Y’know what…” Rich mutters, shaking his head. He pulls me back from the lockers before slamming me back into them again. I try to squirm away, but Rich grips my backpack tightly in his hand and holds me in place. “Stop moving, Cockslut.”

I feel Rich fuck around with the backpack material for a minute, before spinning me around and staring at me, his pale, piercing green eyes staring right into the pit of my soul. I’d honestly think those eyes are pretty if they were attached to anyone except for him. I feel myself being shoved onto the ground, landing hard on the cold, no doubt disease ridden floor of the school.

Rich crosses his arms across his black muscle tank, the dull color accentuating the numerous colorful tattoos lining his strong arms. “You wash that off, you’re _dead.”_

Rich runs away, his manic cackling echoing through the halls as he sprints towards the cafeteria. My cheeks burn as I stand up, feeling dozens of eyes locked onto me. I try to ignore them as I tightly grip the straps of my backpack and walk away from the locker I didn’t even get a chance to open, not looking up as I start walking towards the cafeteria. 

I walk through the arches and into the zombie fluorescent lighting in the cafeteria, where it’s about twenty degrees colder than the rest of the school. I rub my eyes and let them adjust for a moment, before getting in line for food. The food isn’t even good, but I’m so hungry by now I’m willing to eat almost anything. Having nothing in your system but antidepressants, anxiety medication and an ungodly amount of coffee doesn’t exactly fill you up.

I put my earbuds in and put my playlist on shuffle as I wait in the short line for food. I notice a group of emo kids (or goth kids, I can never really tell) next to me all glance over at me and point before laughing. I look away.

I nearly jump out of my cardigan when I feel someone grab my shoulder and shake it, like they’re trying to mix up the contents of the school’s expired chocolate milks. I pull out my earbuds and turn around to see none other than Michael Mell, my best friend, standing there with a shit-eating grin on his blemished face.

I shove him, “Fuck you.”

Michael’s been my best friend since we met in kindergarten, like, twelve years ago. I’m pretty sure he knows me better than I know myself at this point. He’s this sweet, kinda chubby, super vintage dude with tan skin and a ton of birthmarks and different colored eyes and tattoos on a few of his fingers and honestly I don’t think I could ever imagine having a best friend that isn’t him. 

Michael and I go way back. I’m pretty sure that, since we met when we were five, we’ve seen each other or talked to each other at least once a day. It’s always nice to talk to him. I mean, he’s always there when I need him, which is… a lot. He’s there to give me advice, he’s there to comfort me, he and his moms even gave me and my dad a place to stay over the summer after my parents got divorced and my mom snatched the house. We even dated for a few months during that summer, which was surprisingly not awkward at all. It was actually pretty nice. His Nanay ended up finding out, and she was actually thrilled. Even after we broke up, I don’t think we’ve really treated each other any differently. Now that I think about it, it’s kind of no wonder the entire school thinks we’re fucking. Not that I really care, to be honest. It’s pretty tame compared to the rest of the rumors swirling around about the two of us. 

Michael giggles and reaches his arm over me, pulling me into a warm side hug and rubbing the shoulder he just grabbed. I wrap my arm around him and hug him back. But I’m still mad.

“Aw, I’m sorry!” he says through giggles, leaning his head against my shoulder. “I didn’t think you’d freak out that much.”

“You’re such a dick, Michael,” I laugh, and it’s true. But Michael’s a good dick. Wait, no, not… not like that. I mean that he’s still really, really sweet, even though he’s a dick. A good dick.

I pull away from him and punch my code into the computer to pay for my lunch (which is a single apple on a tray. I’ve gotta give the Middle Borough school district credit. Their lunches might suck, but their fruits are fucking _good)._ Michael grips my hand in his as we walk towards our table. We sit in the way back, right by the exit doors, at this circular table behind a huge pillar, so we can see everyone, but no one can see us. When he releases my hand, I drop my backpack onto the floor next to his and we sit down. We hold hands everywhere, it’s been a habit since kindergarten. We get some weird looks in the halls, sure, but I don’t see us breaking that routine for a long, long time.

Michael takes a long sip from his red slushie, pulling the sleeves of his red hoodie over his hands. I swear, Michael must be a hoodie slut or something. Last year, he wore hoodies almost every single day, no matter what the weather was. Over the summer, he started customizing his own hoodies, which is how _The_ hoodie was created. It’s red and extremely oversized with a huge painting on the back and a ton of patches over the rest of it. It’s great.

Michael runs his chubby fingers through his thick, curly dark brown hair and pulls his headphones down from his ears. You can spot him from a mile away when he’s wearing those headphones. They’re big and white and have this wire coming off them that’s spiraled like an old retro phone cord. Which is fitting, because Michael’s probably the most retro person I’ve ever met. Or have seen.

Michael looks over to me, a warm, dimple-y smile creeping onto his lips, “No offense, Jeremy, but you look _grim._ What’s up?”

Another thing about Michael. He can tell you’re having a shitty day just by looking at you, which is both reassuring and unnerving at the same time. 

“I dunno,” I say, staring at the red, shiny apple sitting on my tray. I’m suddenly not hungry anymore. “It’s just been kind of a rough day.”

Michael reaches for my hand and grabs it again, “How come?”

“A lot of reasons,” I say, squeezing Michael’s hand gently. “Chloe Valentine was blocking the way to my locker because she was screaming at Brooke in front of it, for starters.”

“Yeah, that sounds like Chloe,” Michael says, taking another sip from his slushie. 

“And then, Rich came up to me and screamed at me in front of the whole hallway because he thought I was eavesdropping on Chloe or something, and the entire hallway saw it. So,” I say, looking down. “That’s how my day’s been going so far.”

“Aw, Jere,” Michael lets go of my hand and wraps his arm around my shoulders. “Don’t let that stuff get to you, man. Seriously, when we graduate and go to college, do you seriously think people like them are gonna matter?”

“Well, no, but we’re not in college,” I say. “They matter right now.”

“Jeremy, I get it. They’re horrible people and the way they treat you sucks dick. And not in a good way,” Michael winks at me. Christ. “But for reals, you just need to try and ignore it. Just remember that one day, you’re gonna be… I dunno… a famous broadway actor, probably. Or maybe an artist or something. And you know what Rich is gonna be doing? Working at a gas station, because he dropped out of college and lost all his friends because they finally realized how much of a dick tumor he is. So seriously. Try and at least not get so upset about it.”

The sides of my mouth curl into a smile without me even telling them to.

“...dick tumor?” I laugh, raising an eyebrow at Michael. 

He smiles, “They’re real, you know, and Rich Goranski is one _personified._ A real bitchin’ one, too…”

Michael motions to Rich’s table, which is on the other side of the cafeteria, where him and Ryu are screaming and making aggressive hand motions at each other, while Jackson records it and Dustin watches from against the wall, his hands buried in the pockets of his straight-outta-the-80s windbreaker, looking like he’s in the middle of dissociating. Which isn’t all too out of the ordinary for him, to be honest. He seriously deserves better friends.

I laugh, “You know what? I think you’re right.”

“Jeremiah, you know I’m always right,” Michael says. I elbow him in the side. He fakes being hurt and pulls away from the hug, clutching his ribcage in mock pain. I laugh.

“But seriously, dude. Thanks,” I say. “For what you said.”

“About Rich being a dick tumor?” Michael wiggles his eyebrows.

“You know, I don’t have to thank you.”

“It’s a serious question, Jeremy.”

We both laugh, because even though we’re both sixteen year old high school juniors we still find shitty dick insults like that funny. It’s… really nice having a best friend / ex-boyfriend who’s always willing to listen to all my teen angst bullshit. Because, honestly, if I didn’t have someone to vent to all the time, I’m pretty sure I would have literally exploded by now.

“Hey, Jeremy?”

I look at Michael, who’s staring down at something on the floor. “Yeah?”

“What’s a Boyf?”

I pause, “A what?”

“A Boyf,” Michael reaches down and grabs the strap of my backpack and pulls it onto the table. The word “BOYF” is messily written in thick, black sharpie marker right on the front pouch.

“Oh my…” I mutter to myself, clutching a clump of my hair in between my fingers. “Rich must have wrote that in the hallway… what does that even mean?”

“I dunno. Slang?” Michael guesses. His eyes widen. “Wait.”

Michael reaches back down and grabs his own backpack, flinging the red pin-covered pouch onto the table and slamming it down right next to mine. He examines the backpacks like they’re DNA samples of some newly discovered cryptid, before grabbing my cardigan and pulling me closer to him.

I look at the backpacks. The word “REINDS” is written in the same thick, black sharpie across the red fabric of his backpack.

“Huh,” Michael says, reading across our backpacks. I groan and bury my head in my arms. “That’s… a word.”

“Oh my God. Boyfriends?” I say into my sleeves. “I hate this school. It’s not even spelled right.”

“Well, Rich Goranski isn’t really the smartest guy around, Jeremy. Remember that time he got drunk in Mr. Reyes’ class because he ‘wanted to feel free’?” Michael asks, smiling gently at me. I chuckle a bit at the memory. I remember Rich trying to give me a genuine hug while he was wasted. He surprisingly gives really good hugs. I chuckle again when I remember Michael running over to throw -- yes, throw -- Rich off of me because he thought I was about to get jumped. Good times. “I mean, he isn’t technically wrong, but still. I’m not gonna give him the satisfaction of knowing we were actually boyfriends.”

I nod, “I swear, I hate Rich so--”

“Jeremy, remember what I said,” Michael stops me. “Just try not to think about it. Think about this instead: I saw on Discovery that humanity has stopped evolving."

“Really?”

“Yeah. We’re, like… evolutionarily flat.”

“Huh. That’s… good?”

“I guess? Y’know, evolution is survival of the fittest, right? But now, thanks to technology and shit, you don’t have to be strong to survive! Which means there’s never been a better time in history to be a loser!” Michael smiles, making a rainbow with his hands to accentuate the word loser. “So, basically, what I’m trying to say is… own it! Fuck what they think, Jeremy! Just do what makes you happy! Why try to be cool when you could be… I don’t know… getting stoned in my basement with me? Being cool takes too much work, dude. Just be you instead!”

I smile and sigh, picking up the now-empty tray (side note, I seriously don’t understand why they give you a tray for a single piece of fruit. Surely that’s at least a _little_ wasteful, right?) and walking over to the tray-table. “I’ll try.”

Out of nowhere, I feel someone slam the tray out of my hands, sending it crashing down to the floor, landing with a loud CRACK! on the tile. I jump when I hear Jake Dillinger’s unmistakeable, loud, booming laugh echoing through the cafeteria from right in front of me. 

Jake leans down and lets out a long, loud “HAAAH!” right in my face. I jump back. 

Jake Dillinger is the most popular guy in school, and for good reason. He’s freakishly tall, freakishly muscular, freakishly smart… Oh, and hot. Jake is hot. Like really, _really_ hot. He’s this tall, buff as fuck guy with really tight black curls and dark eyes and dark skin and hands that could probably give me a concussion with a single punch. Like... he's _hot._

Basically, he’s everything I wish that I could be, but can’t.

But, I mean, he’s also a huge dick, so… I like to think that I’m better than him in that regard.

There are so many things I’ve heard about Jake that I honestly don’t really have that much to say about who he is as a person. Yeah, I don’t like him, because, like I said, he’s a dick. And not a good one. That’s the one part of his personality I actually know other than the fact that he’s probably the loudest person I’ve ever met. Like, louder than Jenna loud, which is hard. Everything else is pretty much just speculation at this point. Jake, being the most popular dude in school, is constantly the subject of Jenna Rolan’s rumors, because she knows people are gonna listen if they hear her gossip is about Jake Motherfucking Dillinger.

One rumor I heard about him was that his parents are hiding out in Bombay because they laundered a ton of money by selling houses they bought with drug money or something, which I guess would explain how he’s able to throw huge parties every other weekend without them finding out. Another was that he had sex with a Czechoslovakian model over the summer who used to be dating his dad, which I honestly believe completely. Jake can do anything.

Jake’s still laughing, and at this point, some other people are, too. Ryu and Mark are lurched over laughing, while Jackson is chuckling along with a confused expression. I doubt he even knows what he’s supposed to be laughing at, he was so focused on Ryu and Rich’s fight. Speaking of Rich, he’s skipping over to us (literally, _skipping),_ stopping for breath every few steps because of how hard he’s laughing. I look down at the tray that’s now at my feet to avoid eye contact with anyone.

Michael steps in front of me, “Hey! Pick that up, _now.”_

Jake’s smile fades as he steps up to Michael, “Excuse me?”

I hide behind Michael like the coward I am, digging my nails into the sleeve of my cardigan, my hands shaking like mad. Michael, on the other hand, stands tall and confident, staring up at Jake, his expression serious and determined. I’d honestly give anything to be able to do that, even for just a second.

“I’m sorry,” Jake laughs, leaning down to meet Michael’s eyes, since he’s well over six feet tall and Michael’s just five foot nine. “Are you _really, actually_ talking to me?”

“Yo!” Rich comes onto the scene from behind one of the pillars, staring Michael down, his expression nothing short of one huge, silent threat. “My buddy Jake just asked you a question.”

Rich jumps onto Jake’s back, like an annoying toddler asking his dad for a piggy-back ride. He does this a lot, to the point where Jake seems to consider it a normal thing (then again, there are a lot of things me and Michael do that would be considered weird to other people, so I guess I don’t have any right to judge them). Jake and Rich lock eyes for a second, before giving each other a quick nod as Jake hooks his arms under Rich’s toned legs to keep him from falling.

“Yes, I am,” Michael snaps, now staring at Rich. “I wanna know what gives you the right to pull this shit on my friend. Like, seriously! You act like you’re better than everyone else when in reality you’re the scum of the earth! I don’t get why you can’t just mind your own goddamn business for one fucking day, get over yourself!”

Rich lets himself fall from Jake’s back, before walking up to Michael. Michael stares down at him.

“You know what, bitch?” Rich says, doing his best to get up in Michael’s face. Michael just stands on his toes whenever Rich tries to get level with him, which pisses Rich off. “Shut your fucking mouth, you _faggot._ Nobody even likes you. You’re nothing but a fucking eyesore to everyone in this school. Why don’t you just do everyone a favor and fuck off already? Haven’t you realized that nobody wants you around anymore?”

Michael crosses his arms in front of his chest and raises an eyebrow, “Is that really the best you could think of?”

Jake walks up again, grabbing Michael by his hood and pulling him up almost off the ground. Michael tenses for a second, before taking a deep breath and composing himself, staring up at Jake.

His face is an inch away from Michael’s as he drops him back onto the floor. “Shut your mouth before I make you shut it, fucking _loser.”_

Jake and Rich run away laughing, followed closely by their group of dumbasses. I see Dustin standing across the cafeteria, still against the same wall, silent and uncomfortable. He gives a disapproving look to Jake when he returns to the table, ignoring him when he asks him a question. 

I look over to Michael, whos messing with the safety pin impaled through his earlobe, taking deep breaths as his body slightly shakes. I hadn’t even noticed how anxious he had been until now. His free hand grips onto his opposite arm, trying to cease the shaking, but only making it worse. He stares down at the floor, looking miserable. 

I walk over to him. His dark eyes, are tearing up the slightest bit. Michael blinks a million times as soon as he notices I’m near him. I open my arms as a silent invitation for him to hug me. He does, wrapping his tense arms around my shoulders as I pull him closer. I feel him relax almost instantly in my arms. 

“Thanks, Jer…” Michael says, leaning his head against my shoulder. “I needed that.”

“I’m sorry,” I say, hugging him tighter and rubbing his back. “You know, for not saying anything when they were--”

“Don’t be,” Michael says almost immediately. “It’s fine, really. Don’t get upset. I don’t like them and they don’t like me, so honestly, I don’t give a fuck about what they say to me. What I do care about is them being assholes to you for no reason. I’m tired of seeing it.”

“Michael, you were just crying--”

“I have anxiety, Jeremy. It makes me cry when I don’t want to,” Michael says. “I’m not upset. Seriously.”

I know he’s lying. “But--”

“Jeremy, seriously, calm down, it’s okay. Just stop caring,” Michael says, finally pulling away from me. “I did, and to be honest, I feel a lot less shitty now compared to sophomore year.”

“I know, Micah, but it’s… hard to stop caring about stuff like that,” I say, looking back over towards Rich and Ryu’s table. They’ve apparently forgotten about their screaming match and are now hysterically laughing at something Mark said. Jackson and I make eye contact and I look away. “Especially when it’s coming from them.”

Michael gives a warm smile towards me, his curled, rounded lips sending a feeling of comfort through me. “Jeremy, I’m serious. It’s okay. Their insults don’t matter. They’re all lame anyway. If they say you’re a weirdo or a freak or whatever, you’re not, because I said so. And that goes for any insult they call me, too. End of discussion.”

He sits back down at our table and motions for me to sit next to him. I do. 

“So… uh…” Michael hesitates, trying to think of a conversation topic, I’m assuming. “You’re joining theatre this year, right?”

“What?”

“Come on, Jeremy. Don’t play dumb. You’ve gotta join this year, dude!” Michael says, pointing to the sign-up sheet on the wall. This cute, tiny girl with short black curls and a green turtleneck with a little avocado on the neck that looks like it’s about six sizes too big for her is signing her name. 

“I dunno,” I mumble, looking away before she thinks I’m a creepy stalker who wants to write her a secret love letter.

“Oh my God. Jeremy Heere. You’ve been obsessed with this shit since you were, like, eleven,” Michael says. “Just fucking join, dude. I know you want to.”

“I don’t know. I don’t really think theatre’s my… thing.” That’s a huge lie. I’ve always wanted to join theatre. It’s actually my dream to be the leading man in a broadway musical. The thing is, I have literally zero confidence in myself and my body also does this thing where it shuts down whenever too many people are watching me do something. And by too many people I mean, like… anybody who isn’t Michael or my Dad or Michael’s moms. So basically I’ll probably die if I join theatre. Plus, theatre doesn’t exactly help your reputation, especially if you’re a guy. It’s basically an open invitation to being called gay, which is a really lazy, shitty insult, but it’s the one that everyone laughs at (as evidenced by why it’s Rich’s go-to insult when it comes to Michael). Which sucks.

“That’s bull. Half of your room is musical merchandise,” Michael says, raising an eyebrow at me and smirking. “And you have a folder on your computer with, like, two hundred broadway bootlegs in it. _Two. Hundred._ Don’t act like you don’t have a fetish for this kind of stuff.”

“I don’t think ‘fetish’ is the right word,” I say. “I mean, I guess I wanna join, I just… don’t know if I’ll be any good. You know, at the acting and stuff. Or the performing in front of a bunch of people I don’t know.”

“Dude, are you kidding? Remember when you acted out that one scene from that one show about, like, Jehovah’s witnesses or something? You’d be fucking amazing, shut up.”

“First of all, it was The Book of Mormon, and second, I was high.”

“Yeah! And if you’re that good while you’re _high,_ imagine how good you’ll be when you’re _not.”_

“I--” Michael cuts me off by pushing his warm palm against my mouth to shut me up. He moves his hand away from my mouth and wraps his arm around me and drags me to the pillar where the sign-up sheet is. There’s only three names on it so far, and I don’t recognize any of them. 

Michael hands me the pen, “Sign it. Come on.”

I take the pen from him, holding it in my hand for a few long seconds, glancing at it and the three names on the sign-up sheet over and over again, like they’re on a loop.

Michael leans against the pillar, his arms crossed in front of his chest, “You know, I’m not gonna force you to do this, Jer. But I’m gonna keep annoying you about it until you do. I know you wanna do it, so you might as well. You’re, like, the best actor I know.”

I smile at Michael with an eyebrow raised, “Seriously?” 

“Seriously. Sign the paper,” Michael gives me another warm smile. I smile back, lift up the pen, and sign my name right under the last girl’s with a shaky hand. I drop the pen, which swings back to its place on the side of the pillar, dangling from the cheap yarn it’s tied to. 

“GAAAY!” I hear Rich’s rough voice yelling from his table, causing everyone around him to explode into laughing fits (well, everyone except Dustin, which shouldn’t even come as a surprise at this point). I look down, avoiding eye contact with anyone and anything. Michael grips my shoulder, flipping off Rich and everyone who’s laughing as the lunch bell rings and everyone stands up and starts to rush out of the cafeteria arches before they get too crowded.

“Just ignore them, dude,” Michael says as we walk back to our table to get our backpacks. “Rich has, like, seven brain cells left. Don’t let him ruin your day.”

“I won’t,” I say, except that’s a lie, because every time Rich says something like that to me I dwell on it for the whole day instead of moving on like a normal person.

I swing my backpack over my shoulder and grip Michael’s hand as we walk down the hall to my class, keeping my gaze locked on people’s shoes to avoid eye contact (particularly Michael’s, both because he’s the closest person to me and because they’re those huge white sneakers that have the color changing LED lights around the bottom. Most people stopped wearing them in middle school when the trend faded. But Michael still wears them, because he thinks they’re cool. And I think they’re cool. But nobody else thinks they’re cool, which basically means that they aren’t cool). Michael gives me a quick hug and walks into Mr. Gretch’s room, who’s already yelling at Rich because he’s taking pictures of himself with his tongue out, since he has a piercing and likes to flaunt it. Michael shoots me an uncomfortable smile from inside the classroom, pulling his headphones over his heavily pierced ears. I chuckle and wave goodbye to him one final time as he disappears into the back of the room.

I walk the rest of the way to Ms. Greene’s room by myself, glancing nervously around the halls, trying to find something to focus on that isn’t another person. It ends up being Jenna Rolan’s boots, since they’re purple and sparkly and have flames on them and a huge heel that makes her seem three inches taller. They don’t match her jacket at all. 

I walk into class and fall back into my seat, which is at the way front of the room in the corner, right next to the windows, showing off a great view of the bridge that leads back to my house, a place I wish I could go, but can’t. I sit in front of this one grungey kid, Casey, who rides around the halls on a skateboard and has bigger lips than most of the girls. He’s completely passed out on his desk at twelve o’clock sharp in the afternoon. 

I put my earbuds in and hide them behind my messy hair, throwing the Dear Evan Hansen cast recording into shuffle and watching blankly as Ms. Greene starts her lesson, speedily writing a ton of history notes on the whiteboard. I pull out my notebook and mindlessly copy them down, internally counting down the seconds until I can walk out the doors of Middle Borough High School with Michael and collapse into the comfort of my bed, so I can let the bulky covers swallow me whole.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> what's up i updated it!!! i personally like this chapter way better lmao, tell me what u think!
> 
> also as of writing this the james charles v tati westbrook v jeffree star WAR has just begun and i watched a ton of drama videos while revising this and i..... james really snapped, and as someone who used to support jeffree i seriously have NO WORDS about what's going on. youtube is in chaos. idk if anyone cares about the situation but if u do uh WHATS UR STANCE because i can't support anyone right now besides bretman rock and nikkietutorials because i'm so confused


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> trigger warnings: mentions of self-harm
> 
> sorry this is out so late DUIUEGYBHJ i also.... hate how it came out but i literally can't find out where to edit it anymore so yknow

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> trigger warnings: mentions of self-harm

It’s the end of the school day and I’m walking through the locker-lined halls of Middle Borough High School with Michael, slowly making my way towards the auditorium, where the first theatre meeting is taking place. I’m watching Jake Dillinger make an attempt to flirt with Jude Horowitz while I try to explain to Michael what the plot of Rent is.

“Wait, okay, so…” Michael says, his headphones blasting some obscene Mindless Self Indulgence song (Wack, I think) from around his neck, which annoys literally everyone in the hallway, which he definitely knows, but doesn't acknowledge. “Explain the cross-dressing one to me again.”

“You mean Angel?” I laugh. Jude flips off Jake and calls him a pervert. “Well, okay, so he meets Collins in an alleyway, because Collins got mugged and Angel wanted to help him.”

“So they just _immediately_ fell in love right there and then?” Michael asks, shooting a warm smile at Dustin Kropp, who’s playing an old Pokemon game on a 3DS by his locker. He returns the smile.

“Well, it’s a musical, Michael. They’re gonna have to simplify some stuff.”

“Still. Imagine getting a boyfriend that quickly.”

“Imagine telling your landlord you’re not gonna pay your rent and not immediately being evicted,” I say, raising my eyebrow at him.

Michael laughs, “I guess you have a point.”

We come to a stop in front of two large doors, which are across the hall from the gymnasium, where the football players are screaming at each other, practicing for their game or something. It honestly sounds like they’re about to all get into a huge fight with each other.

“So… you’ll be done around… what, five? I gotta know how long I’ve got to make a Sev-Elev run,” Michael says, looking at me. 

“Uh… I…” Michael raises an eyebrow at me as I hesitate to form a coherent sentence. “I… actually… don’t know if I can do this, Michael…” 

“You’re bitching out?” Michael smirks, turning off his music. “Come on, already? You haven’t even gone in yet, dude.”

“I… I just… I don’t know,” I say, watching as some members of the football team run up to Jake Dillinger, who’s been leaning against the wall next to the cafeteria entrance bopping his head along to a song, I guess trying to play off what happened with Jude, which is understandable. Jake’s tanned face lights up as he sees them and runs up to bro-hug them. I’m actually a little jealous that that many people are excited just to see him. “I guess evolution’s not for everyone.”

“Aw, Jeremy,” Michael says, throwing his arm around my shoulders. “It’s _totally_ for you! I’ve seen you sing and act before, and you’re, like, the best at it!”

“You have literally nobody to compare me to, Michael. I suck.”

“Uh, no, you don’t. Shut up.”

I roll my eyes and look back at the door. I can literally feel Michael tapping his foot against the ground, something he does whenever he’s annoyed at me, or anyone in general, actually. I hear him walk up behind me before wrapping his warm arms around my shoulders, leaning his forehead against the back of mine, which now that I think about it is a pretty normal occurrence between us, if you can believe it.

“You know, you don’t _have_ to do this,” Michael says into my neck. “But, of course… I’ll mock you forever if you don’t.”

“Thanks.”

“Come on, you’ve got this,” Michael says. “Own your shit! You’re gonna be great.”

I sigh, somewhat succumbing to Michael’s constant encouragement, “I’m, like, okay.”

Michael pulls away from my back and looks at me, his eyebrow raised, “ _Fine_ , then own your okayness. Just go in before the teacher things you stood ‘em up. You’ve got this, bitch.”

I sigh as Michael’s arms open, a silent demand for me to hug him. I do, indulging in his warm embrace for more than I probably need to, which Michael doesn’t notice, because his hugs are always long. When I let go I feel cold.

“Text me when your rehearsal’s over,” Michael says, pulling away. “I’ll get you a slushie.”

Michael waves goodbye to me as he skips down the hall to Mr. Diggs’ room, where yearbook meets, which Michael only joined because it meant he could spend more time with Dustin, who’s usually so miserable by the end of every day that he probably needs someone like Michael to lift his spirits, especially after being around such shitty “friends” all day. I’m actually surprised Mr. Diggs would let a bunch of high schoolers hang out in his room unsupervised after school, while Mr. Diggs himself was driving home or to his second job or whatever he does after school. But I guess he either trusts Dustin and Michael and a few other troublemaker kids enough to leave them alone for an hour once a week or just doesn’t care. You never know with Mr. Diggs.

I walk into the auditorium and I’m immediately hit by a wave of sweaty humidity. The auditorium is one of the only places in the school that isn’t air conditioned, probably because the majority of the school isn’t even aware of its existence. The other place without air conditioning is the gym, which is both stupid and probably why it smells so gross all the time. I slide my cardigan off of my back and throw it against one of the seats facing the stage, which is actually a lot bigger than you would expect for a school theatre nobody knows about. 

I haven’t been in a school play since middle school, because in middle school, people are less judgemental than they are in high school, so you’re able to join the clubs you wanna join without having a post made about you on the school gossip Tumblr.

In middle school, I was in _The Tempest_ and _You’re a Good Man, Charlie Brown_ to rave reviews, both times, from my Dad. It was pretty fun, from what I remember. I remember after every rehearsal my Dad would bring me to McDonald’s, which is actually probably why I was so chubby in middle school, but either way, it was fun.

I loved everything about school plays -- being at school after school, learning my lines in my bedroom while Michael watched horror movies at max volume, how the performance seemed totally fucked a week before it goes on, but then came together at the last minute, how the second show always managed to be better than the first, how everyone took their bow at the end, and their parents (or, in my case, just my Dad) are standing and taking videos and cheering because they’re so proud. And finally, when it’s all done, you’re invited to a cast party! Well, actually, I’ve never gone to a cast party, because my anxiety prevents me from going to any party in general, but I’m sure they’re great. So, I’m just assuming (well, hoping) that high school theatre is the same way.

I fall back into the chair and exhale as I put in my earbuds, put my playlist on shuffle, and wait for literally anybody else to show up.

I’m not even halfway through Sufjan’s first song before I feel someone yank my earbud right out of my ear. I jump and look to my side.

“What up, bitch?” It’s Mark Jackson. Of course he decided to sit next to me instead of literally any other seat, which are all empty. I didn’t even hear him walk in, actually, so he could have just been there already and decided to move just to fuck with me, which is honestly more than possible.

“Hey, Mark,” Mark and I used to be pretty good friends, actually, back in middle school. From sixth grade to eighth, me, him and Michael were all a trio who would play Undertale and watch horror movies together. He was actually pretty sweet, until he wasn’t, because over the summer after eighth grade his dad fucking murdered his co-worker or neighbor or something and went to prison, which really messed up Mark’s whole life. Which I guess isn’t really his fault. But even still, ever since then, he’s been acting like a complete dick to pretty much everyone. “You’re in theatre?”

Even though I don’t like Mark at all, I still kind of feel bad for him, because, if I’m being honest, his life kinda sucks. So I try to be as nice as I can bring myself to be to him, which sometimes means I force myself to try and have a conversation with him. Which almost never works.

“Yeah, I’m in this dilly deal, Foureyes.” God. “Didn’t think you would have the balls to do it, though.” Mark’s playing a game on his phone where he shoots pixelated homeless people so that they explode into a red fountain of blood. He’s having way too much fun with it.

‘What?”

“I mean, it’s not like I didn’t think you’d be into it. You’re like, fruit-aliciously homo-rific. Of course you’d like broadway n’ shit.”

Sometimes I seriously wonder why I even try to make an effort with Mark anymore.

“Mark, I’m not--.”

“But you were like, spazzin’ out when you were signin’ up for it. So.”

“Why are you doing theatre?” I change the subject.

“Nothin’ better to do,” Mark says, homeless people groaning as they die on his phone. “My ma’s bringin’ over a ton of guys. Tryin’ to find me a stepdad or somethin’. I don’t wanna be around for that shit.”

“Huh.” Oh yeah. Mark hasn’t seen his dad since he went to prison, either, which is both understandable and kind of sad.

“Yeah. New guy every week, basically. I don’t like any of ‘em. Fuckin’ assholes, all of ‘em.” Mark slams his phone down against his thigh. I guess he lost the round or something. “I don’t actually like theatre, don’t get the wrong idea, Dorkus Malorkus. It just requires the least amount of effort.”

“Oh,” I say, absent-mindedly nodding. “You don’t really seem like a theatre person.”

“Yeah, ‘cause I ain’t a faggot,” Mark says. Christ.

“I…”

I hear the doors to the auditorium swing open a few seconds before Casey Judd from history class walks into the auditorium, immediately pulling off his hoodie because of the humidity that’s trapped in the room. He smiles and strides up to us.

“Hey, Mark. Hey… Jeremy?” Casey says, sympathetically smiling at me.

“Oh, uh, yeah,” I say. Casey’s the only person who’s gotten my name right on the first time, which is a nice change. 

“ _Jeremy_ ,” he sounds it out. “Cute name, it fits you.”

I chuckle and feel my cheeks blush, “Uh, thanks.”

Casey has the same skillset as Jake Dillinger when it comes to situations like these -- he’s so charming that he could probably turn any straight guy gay with enough eye contact.

Mark scoffs, “Speakin’ of faggots.”

Casey glares at him, “I’m sorry, Mark, when was the last time you’ve dated… er… anyone?”

Mark mutters something under his breath and storms off towards the stage, where there’s a circle of metal chairs waiting to be sat in. He sits down so his back is completely facing us. Casey and I chuckle.

Casey smiles at me, “We should probably go up there, too. Just be careful about Mark… I think he’s on his period.” He winks at me. I laugh and follow him onstage.

I sit right across from Mark, only because it’s the farthest seat away from him. I immediately avoid eye contact. Casey sits a few seats down from me and texts someone on his phone. Probably Jude, based on how wide his smile is. After a few minutes two other people walk in the door. Casey jumps up and runs down to hug them. I recognize them as Garrett and Jonah when the walk up. Garrett’s this tall black guy with messy, poofy dreads and a questionable fashion sense and Jonah dresses in full drag every day. And by full drag I mean he literally dresses like a drag queen every single day, wig and makeup and costume and everything. It’s honestly kind of impressive. Like, he could be on RuPaul’s Drag Race and win with ease. They sit on either side of Casey.

I look back down to my phone, tuning out all the noise outside of Sufjan’s music. I jump and look up when I hear the loud doors to the auditorium open.

The small Asian girl with the short black hair emerges from the doorway as a huge, genuine smile stretches across her red, glossy lips. She immediately looks at home in the humid auditorium, eyes glowing as she rolls up her sleeves and ties her hair up into a bun with a scrunchie that’s the exact same shade of red as her skirt.

She throws down her bag, which is also red and has a pouch shaped like a heart on the front, and starts to walk up the stage steps. I indulge myself back into Carrie and Lowell so it doesn’t look like I’m staring.

“Excuse me?” I hear a voice coming from next to me. I look over. It’s the girl.

“Is it okay if I sit here?” she asks, smiling down at me. 

I nod, “Of course!” I say. And then I start to worry that I sounded too excited. But she just smiles and sits down, pulling out her phone to send a quick text to someone before shutting it off again and sighing, looking around the auditorium again.

“So, you’re nervous, huh?” she asks, looking at me with a friendly smile.

“What?” My voice shakes a little more than it should, probably because I know I’m about to have a conversation with someone I barely know. I mean, okay, I wouldn’t really consider myself shy, per-se. Maybe a little, but not really. I’m more socially awkward to the point where I can’t have a normal conversation with most people. And I’m also scared of human interaction. So conversations with new people are basically the equivalent to Hell for me. But I try to ignore that and listen to the girl.

“You’re bouncing your leg a lot. I learned in health class that when people bounce their legs, they’re usually anxious or stressed. Your hands are also shaking.” She smiles.

I look down, “Oh my God, they are.” She laughs. “I-I guess I am kinda nervous… I’m, um, I’m kinda new to all this.”

“I get it. You’re a virgin.” She says. My breath stops for a second. “First play rehearsal!”

She smiles at me, her cheeks caving into dimples. I smile back.

“I’m a little jealous, actually. You never forget your first. Play rehearsal, I mean. I remember in freshman year when I played Goodie Proctor in _The Crucible_. That’s when I knew this… kind of sweaty room was gonna be my new happy place! Don’t worry, I’m sure it’ll happen to you soon, too.”

She inches forward on her seat as she looks around the auditorium once again, “Coming here is the highlight of… my _life_!”

“Your life?”

She nods excitedly, “Uh, duh! There’s no reason it wouldn’t be! It’s literally the best! It’s just so much fun being here, I just get… depressed when it’s over!”

She pauses, “But not depressed as in, like, _kill yourself_ depressed. I’m not into self-harm. Here, you can check!”

She holds her arm up to my face to prove herself. There’s a few doodles of pink and red cartoon girls scattered across her tan skin. “See? No scars!”

I nod as I curl my baren arms into my chest. The girl continues.

“See, I just use that word to emphasize how much I _love_ play rehearsal! I’m really passionate about it! I’m passionate about a lot of things, actually. Like, you know, gun control and equal rights. Oh, and spring! I love spring,” she pauses. “I also have a touch of ADD, so I can’t always remember what I’m talking about, so I just decided to get a lot of passion for a lot of things so I always have something to talk about! Speaking of ADD, where was I?”

“You’re, uh, really passionate about play rehearsal?”

“Oh! Right! I love play rehearsal because you’ve got direction and scripts and choreography and text and memorization, you know? Life’s easy in rehearsal. You know what comes next, all the time, so you’re never caught off guard,” she pauses. “Life can’t really work out the way it does in the play, you know?”

“Yeah,” I say. And it’s true. I would kill someone if it meant I could have life easy and know what was coming, and how to deal with it and all that stuff. Because who wouldn’t?

“Like, the only time I get to be the center of attention is when I’m onstage playing Juliet or Blanche Dubois, and can I just mention how that was one of my best roles? Did you see that?” She says.

I nod, “In, um… A… A Streetcar Named Desire? Yeah, you were really good!”

She smiles, “Aww, thank you!” She wraps her arms around my shoulders and hugs me. I hug her back. It honestly feels really comforting. She separates as she continues with her verbal essay on why she loves play rehearsal.

“Gosh, no matter how hard I try, it’s just impossible to narrow down all the reasons why I love coming here!” she exclaims, flapping her hands around like an excited kindergartner. “I just wanna happiness-cry every time it starts! I just… it’s so cool to be able to try and play so many different parts! You know, most people just do one thing for their entire lives. I could literally never do that, I’d probably go crazy! The thought of doing that sort of thing just gives me hives! I can’t even fathom the thought of me doing anything other than theatre for the rest of my life!”

She pauses again, “Then again, I have a lot more interests I wanna pursue, so I’m not sure what I one-hundred-percent want to do yet, but I know theatre is one of the main ones.”

“I can tell,” I say, hoping that it doesn’t sound like I’m being sarcastic. “I mean, you seem like you, er, really love it.”

“Oh, I do!” she exclaims. 

Neither of us say anything for a few awkward seconds, before the girl looks at me again, “Thanks for listening to that, by the way. I don’t get to talk about play rehearsal with that many of my friends. Well, my one friend, and my cousin. Neither of them are really into it, you know? Maybe Jenna a little, but definitely not Dustin.”

“Jenna… Rolan?”

“Yeah! I love her. She’s actually a lot sweeter than most people think.”

“Hm,” I say. I don’t buy it, but I don’t want to get on this girl’s bad side right after we met, so I just nod.

The girl looks back over at me and smiles, “Gosh, I almost forgot! I’m Christine Canigula.”

“Oh, um, I-I’m Jeremy. Heere,” I say awkwardly. 

“Jeremy… oh! Michael’s boyfriend, right?”

 _Christ._

“Oh, n-no, we’re not… we’re not dating.”

“Oh, really? You guys would make a cute couple!”

Oh my God. _Everybody_ says that, I swear. I’m pretty sure my own father told me that, once. I know Michael’s older brother and sister told me that once, too.

“How do you know Michael?” I ask her.

“He’s my cousin’s friend. But he’s, like, a _real_ friend, which is nice. He tells me stories about him a lot,” she says. I’m scared to ask what stories he’s been telling her. “He’s also his best client, so I guess there’s that, too.”

“Client?”

“My cousin’s a…” Christine lowers her voice. “ _Drug dealer_.”

“Drug… dealer?”

“You know Dustin Kropp? He’s my cousin.”

“Oh. _Oh!_ Yeah, I know Dustin,” I finally catch on. Though, I wouldn’t really call Dustin a drug dealer. The only real drug he sells is weed. I mean, I guess depending on who you are, selling flavored juul pods and alcohol could also kind of be considered a drug. 

Christine anxiously taps her foot, “Oh my Gosh, I’m so psyched to see what the play is this year… hopefully something good, cause I wanna be the lead. I mean, I’d probably try out for the lead anyway, but I just… don’t wanna play that kind of… damsel in distress character, you know? The women who are just there so the leading man can save them? I hate that.”

I nod.

“Like, it sucks that strong female characters aren’t really in theatre right now, especially high school theatre. Do you feel that way? Because I totally feel that way.”

“Yeah.”

“Like… I wish more characters could be more like, I guess, Elphaba. Or Mimi. Minus the drug addiction.”

I laugh, “Yeah, uh, I don’t think a heroin-addicted character would fly for high school theatre. Rent, uh, as a whole probably wouldn’t be allowed in high school theatre, either.”

Christine laughs, “Yeah, probably not. Though I would love it if we could do Rent!”

I laugh and nod, “You know, um, Jonah would make a great Angel.”

Christine laughs again and nods, “Yeah!!”

There’s another awkward silence before I decide to break the ice, “So… are we, like, the only people in theatre? Um, I thought there would be more,” I say, glancing at Casey and his friends as they start hysterically laughing at a video on his phone. I avoid looking at Mark, but I can hear him cussing under his breath, probably at his game.

Christine sighs, “We’ve been slipping in membership lately. I guess this is it, this year.”

Just as I begin to form the words to reply, I hear the door to the auditorium bang open and see a flood of people run in. I hear Rich and Jake yelling to each other about something (literally the only word I can make out is some form of “bro”). Chloe and Brooke come skipping in, humming along to a song while Jenna staggers behind, trying to get their attention, but failing. 

“Huh. I guess I spoke too soon,” Christine says, smiling at me. I nod. But I’m not happy.

The group stomps up the stairs, and Rich almost immediately storms over to me, forcefully motioning for me to get off the chair and sit on the floor. I don’t think twice before getting up and sitting on the stage. Rich motions for Jake to sit there as he approaches, and Jake does, smacking Rich playfully on the back of his neck as he does. Rich grabs the chair next to him and slides it so close to Jake’s that they’re almost touching, before sitting backwards on it, his short, muscled legs hanging off either side of the chair’s metal back.

Christine joins me on the floor a couple seconds later, and motions to Chloe with her eyes, who is now sitting on her chair, legs crossed and bitch face aimed right at Madaline. I give Christine a sympathetic smile as she scoots an inch or two closer to me. 

I hear a voice coming from backstage, slowly emerging along with the form it’s attached to. It’s Mr. Reyes. “Oh thank God, the popular students have arrived!”

Well, ouch. I glance over at Mark as he says this. He genuinely looks offended that he wasn’t looped in with “the popular students,” which lifts my spirits a bit, but even still. Like, I know I’m not popular. I’m probably one of the least popular students in the school. But hearing a teacher say that, and having a teacher stay hidden from me because I’m not popular is fucking awful. Or maybe I’m just too sensitive. Which, honestly, isn’t too unlikely.

Christine doesn’t seem to have a care in the world about this, though. She just anxiously taps her hands against her knees, waiting for the rehearsal to actually begin.

“Now, hello and welcome everyone to the theatre department! It’s nice to see some new faces with us this year,” he looks dead at me. I avoid eye contact. I hear Rich’s rough voice snicker from behind me. “I’m Mr. Reyes. You may recognize me from your English class. I also work at Hobby Lobby after school on most weekdays.” 

Casey and Jonah whoop. Garrett shakes his head.

“Thank you. Now, we’re going to skip icebreakers because, let’s be honest, nobody wants to do that.” Thank fucking God. “So, we’re going to get right to the chase. I’ve been dreaming of the day I get to stage the great William Shakespeare's classic “A Midsummer Night's Dream--”

“YES!!” I hear Christine shout from next to me. I actually jump.

“--And today that dream dies.”

“...What?”

Mr. Reyes smiles, “And is reborn! Just… slightly mutated. The school has informed me that, unless I am somehow able to increase our popularity among the school, our funds will be diverted. To the frisbee golf team.”

This time, Jake whoops. Garrett smiles and nods at him. Mr. Reyes rolls his eyes.

“Which is why our production will be set not in a pastoral forest, but a post-apocalyptic future. Instead of frolicking with fairies, there will be fleeing from zombies!”

“Yo, that’s hella cool, bro!” I hear Jake say quietly to Rich, who just laughs.

“B-but Mr. Reyes, that’s completely getting rid of the original story! People won’t even know what the play is supposed to be!” Christine says, distress clear in her voice.

“Christine, the name of the play will be on the pamphlet. Plus, audiences love a little originality when it comes to high school theatre,” Mr. Reyes says.

“Don’t you care about Shakespeare?”

“The man has been dead and buried for centuries. Let it go,” Mr. Reyes claps his hands as Christine looks at him, twelve emotions present on her face. “We will now take a five minute break so that I can get a hot pocket. Every week we will choose someone to go microwave one for me while I set up the chairs, so this week… er… Jonah! Jonah will go do that.”

Jonah stands up and flicks a strand of his blonde wig behind his dark shoulder, “It’s time for this girl to shine.” He struts offstage like a model on a catwalk. Casey cheers after him.

Everyone begins to talk and laugh again as Mr. Reyes kicks all of us out of our chairs and recruits Casey and Garrett to help him rearrange them.

Christine is still upset, so I scooch closer to her, “Hey, uh, you okay?”

“I just don’t get how you can screw with such a beloved play like that! Especially one from Shakespeare! He practically invented theatre!” She exclaims, slamming her palms down onto her knees. “Also, I’m pretty sure what we’re doing is illegal.”

“Oh, yeah,” I say. “But, I mean… maybe it’ll turn out okay? I mean, yeah, the plot doesn’t make much sense, um, at all, but… I dunno… maybe we can give it a shot?”

Christine shrugs, “Maybe. I’m still kind of mad, though.”

“I can tell,” I chuckle. 

She smiles, “I just… I really love Shakespeare.”

“Another one of your passions?” I smirk.

Christine laughs, “Yeah, definitely!”

We talk about Rent again, specifically about Joanne, until we see Jonah start to walk up the stairs a few minutes later, hot pocket and plate in hand. “Okay sis, so basically, I’ve never made a hot pocket before, so ya girl might’ve burned it a little bit. But I tried my best.”

Mr. Reyes’ expression is a mix of confusion and slight disbelief, “Thank you for that, Jonah.”

He walks back up to the front of the room, “Alright, to save time, we’re not going to do auditions this year. Instead, I will choose who will play what right here, right now, so we can start learning lines as soon as possible to make this play the best it can be.” That logic doesn’t make much sense, but I don’t say anything. Mr. Reyes examines the room. “Now, raise your hand if you would like to have an acting role in this year’s production.”

Christine’s hand bolts into the air, while mine hesitantly follows, as well as all of the popular students’ (at least, that’s what Mr. Reyes labelled them). And Mark, who’s still absorbed in his phone. I’m honestly surprised that he even knows what’s going on. Mr. Reyes nods.

“Okay, so you four,” Mr. Reyes points to Madaline, Casey, Jonah and Garrett, “will be working on crew. You’ll help design sets, work with lighting, make costumes and help with makeup. You know the drill. Talk amongst yourselves to find out what roles you will all be taking charge of.”

Madaline rushes over to the others and I can almost immediately hear Jonah demanding he be put in charge of makeup and costumes. Chloe mumbles something to Brooke and Jenna as Madaline asks to help him. Mr. Reyes continues.

“Okay, so, to begin… Jeremiah Heere? Jeremy?”

God. “Uh, yeah?”

“You look like you would fit… Lysander. You’re Lysander.”

“Okay.”

Mr. Reyes looks through the cast list, “Just be prepared to memorize your lines, it’s a tough role.”

I nod, “O-Okay.”

“Jake Dillinger?” 

“Yo!” Jake throws his arm in the air. Rich laughs and high-fives him.

“You are going to be Demetrius, another tough role. Get ready to memorize much-ly,” Mr. Reyes says. 

“Ayy!” Jake yells, punching his fist into the air like he just won a football game. Rich laughs.

“Love the passion, Mr. Dillinger,” Mr. Reyes deadpans, still obviously bitter due to Jake’s response to the news about the frisbee golf team. “Now, who’s next… Puck! Where is my Puck?”

Mr. Reyes examines his options once again, “Christine Canigula!”

“You’re kidding!” She exclaims. “I’m Puck?!”

“You, young lady, are Puck.”

“Oh my God, yes!” Christine literally jumps off of the floor, pumping her fist in the air just as Jake had been doing a few seconds ago. Everyone eyes her with respect and swelled-up cutesy pride. Or maybe that’s just me. 

“Now, Ms. Canigula, don’t get too excited. It’s a disgusting number of lines,” Mr. Reyes says. 

“I know!” Christine exclaims, still jumping up and down. “That’s why I love it so much!”

Mark finally looks up from his phone to give Christine a judgemental stare. She either doesn’t notice or doesn’t care. He looks back down.

Mr. Reyes moves on through Hermia, Helena, Titania, Bottom, and about a dozen other characters. Mark, across from me with his phone, which is still blasting the sounds of homeless people being murdered, gets stuck being some kind of cross-dressing elf, which is comforting.

Mr. Reyes begins to pass out scripts, “Alright, so we’re going to do an initial read-through today, and tomorrow we’ll focus on some of the larger roles… now, Jenna, please read your line so we can begin.”

Jenna squints as she begins to read the line, “Now, fair Hippolyta, our nuptial hour…”

Christine smiles at Jenna as she reads her line. Jenna notices and smiles back, “Draws on apace; four happy days bring in Another moon: but, O, methinks, how slow…”

I hear Chloe whispering to Brooke from behind me, “Oh my God, look at Madaline’s outfit. It looks like a trash bag with a condom on top.”

I don’t think I’ve ever met someone with a shittier personality than Chloe Valentine, who keeps talking about Madaline Monroe, who’s just one of the many girls who’ve hooked up with Jake Dillinger, three months after her and Jake broke up. Madaline actually seems pretty sweet, from when I’ve seen her. 

“Um… ‘Y-You have her father’s love, D-Demetrius. Let… let me have Hermia’s: do you marry him.” I feel this tug of self-consciousness as I read my line, and it doesn’t help that Mark Jackson is staring at me with this shit-eating grin on his face. 

“Oh, and Brooke, do you even know what Jenna told me Jake said to her? So, they were hanging out during his last party…”

“Uh, I-I am, my Lord, as… as well derived as he, um, a-as well possessed,” I can slowly feel my anxiety start to detonate. I try to force it back into the pit of my stomach where it usually resides, lingering with me as a constant, semi-painful reminder that something can -- and will -- eventually go very wrong and there’s I can do about it. It’s like an emotionally abusive ulcer.

Luckily, I’m able to ignore most of my anxiety because of Chloe, who’s still talking about Madaline.

“...and they were smoking, right? So, Madaline takes the pipe…”

“A-and, uh, which is, uh, m-more than all these beasts can be, um, I-I am beloved o-of, uh, b-beau… beauteous…”

“...and you know what Jake tells her?” Chloe lowers her voice. “Come sit on this pipe, babe. And she went! Unbelievable.”

Brooke lets out a quiet laugh that seems ingenuine and returns her attention to Jenna, who’s finished reading her lines and is now listening to Mr. Reyes add modifications to said lines.

“Oh my Gosh, I don’t think he even wrote a script yet,” Christine whispers to me. “Are we actually going to just make up the script as we go?”

I giggle, “I guess so.”

“Jesus,” Christine mutters. “I love Mr. Reyes, but… yikes…”

I laugh, “Honestly.”

I can’t tell if Christine likes me or if she just really hates this year’s play, but one way or another she’s talking to me, as if we’re friends and didn’t just meet an hour ago. She’s not degrading me or insulting me or asking if me and Michael fuck on the weekends, like most people do. She’s just being friendly, and sweet, and I can tell it isn’t a facade, which is a great change.

As we read through, I start notice how Jake tilts his head towards Christine every time he comes to a sweet line in the script (and you know Shakespeare -- the sweet lines are really sweet), as if he’s attempting to really subtly direct them at her. 

“Thy lips, those kissing cherries, tempting grow! That pure congealed white, high Taurus snow,” Jake says, looking up from his script to make eye contact with Christine for a few seconds as he reads the line. Christine gives him a confused half-smile. Then she looks over at me and gives me the same, yet more confused half-smile. We laugh.

* * * * * 

“Give me your hands, if we be friends, And Robin shall restore amends,” Christine reads, finally concluding our first play rehearsal at 5:30. 

“Reagggggh…” the cast collectively stretches while the crew all sleep in a huddle, like the homeless on a cold night in Manhattan. Garrett smacks the back of Casey’s head as he wakes up, cracking every joint in his body as he stretches. I honestly kind of envy him for being able to sleep for two hours while I struggled to read a three word line without stuttering, but I try to ignore it.

Mr. Reyes stands up from his chair, looking completely mentally drained, “Right, okay, so that’s the play.” He sounds really unenthusiastic. “Tomorrow we’re going to do the scenes with Jake and Jeremiah.”

Jake whoops again from behind me, stretching out his long legs so that the bottoms of his six hundred dollar sneakers kick me in the back. I try to pretend that I don’t feel it, but I do.

I stand up and crack my back, which is so stiff my spine feels like a flat plank of wood rather than a bone that bends. Christine stands up after me and stretches her arms up. I can see Jake staring at her out of the corner of my eye. Ugh.

Everyone rushes down the stairs of the stage and out the doors of the auditorium, yelling at each other and jumping on top of one another, because that’s what happens in Middle Borough. It’s honestly pretty uncommon not to see that happening on a regular basis.

“So, um,” I say to Christine as we start to grab our things. “Congratulations. Um, on Puck. I didn’t get a chance to say it back there.”

“Thanks!” Christine says, letting down her hair. It’s a wavy mess of shiny black, but she just flips it a few times and lets it be. “I don’t get why nobody likes the roles so many lines. Learning lines is, like, the best part about theatre! I mean, maybe this play isn’t the best example, but…”

I laugh, “Yeah, some of the lines aren’t really… Shakespearean.”

Christine laughs as we walk out of the auditorium, “Yeah, haha. They’re a little messy, you know?”

“Definitely,” I say, and it’s true. You could go from beautiful Shakespearean language to modern day slang and Jersey accents. “Like, imagine Shakespeare walking around using slang.”

“Oh, gosh,” Christine laughs, walking up to the door.

Christine and I walk down the hall, pretty much just making fun of Mr. Reyes’ script-writing techniques the whole way. Christine laughs as we approach the exit door.

“Well, honestly? I’m glad I at least got to spend rehearsal with you, Jeremy,” she says. I feel my cheeks burn. “Like, Jenna usually does it with me, but it was nice to have someone around who I can actually talk to.”

“Really? Haha, thanks,” I say. I don’t think I’d ever expect to hear those words come out of anyone’s mouth. Except maybe Michael. But only when he’s high, because Michael’s one of those people who don’t like to admit how much they really care about someone.

“Yeah! It’s nice to have someone who actually knows enough about Rent to talk about it,” she says, smiling up at me.

I have flashbacks to about two hours before, where I was trying to explain Rent to Michael, “Haha, yeah. Same for me.”

I wave goodbye to Christine as she skips -- literally, skips -- out the door and into the warm parking lot. In that moment, I honestly wish I could have the amount of confidence she does.

“Hey, Lysander,” I turn around when I hear Jake’s Jersey accent, which is even thicker than Mark’s, “Ya ready for our scenes tomorrow?”

“I… I guess,” I deadpan, only I’m not.

Jake walks alongside me. When I quicken my pace, he does the same, chuckling. 

“Ya know, someone wrote BOYF on ya backpack,” Jake says, pointing at it. “Might wanna do somethin’ about that?”

I silently nod. God, I almost forgot about my backpack. I look around the hall before my eyes land on the bathroom, which is both a perfect escape from Jake and a half-decent place to try and wash off the half-word that Rich wrote on my backpack. 

Jake wraps his arm around me and rubs my shoulder, “Ya know, maybe you should… ahh… wash that off.”

I shove his arm away, “Y-yeah, I’m gonna go, uh… do that.”

Jake ruffles my hair, “Good. You should’a done that a while ago. Glad you finally caught on.”

I walk away from him and try to ignore the fact that he’s still there. Jake follows me, walking up to my side and winking at me before walking to the door. Ew. 

He turns to look at me, a stupid smile plastered across his tanned, birthmark-ey face. “S-S-See you, um, uh, later, uh, J-Jere… Jeremiah.”

He runs to his (undoubtedly expensive) car cackling.

I sigh and look back down at my backpack as I walk into the bathroom, slamming my backpack into the sink and turning on the faucet, looking at myself in the mirror and trying not to cry over all the things I can’t control.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> omg im so sorry this took so long to come out jesus. the next chapter shouldn't take as long because it's shorter sksksk

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> tw // some violence on rich's part? no serious triggers.

The bathroom smells like weed, which is nothing new.

Eight times out of ten, there’s a group of people crowding in the corner by the sinks passing around a marijuana pipe, and nine times out of ten at least one of those people is Michael. I feel like the stoners in Middle Borough are somehow able to immediately recognize one another in a crowd and just automatically drift toward each other. I guess they can just smell the weed on each other or something.

I walk over to the dirty bathroom sinks and throw my backpack into it, turning on the faucet and being careful to not let too much water soak through the backpack material so my English notes don’t get ruined. 

As I try to rub the Sharpie BOYF off of my backpack with my fingernails, I feel tears pushing at the back of my eyes. I blink them away before they can get any closer to escaping. Stuff like this always fucks with my emotions. I guess I’m just more sensitive to it or whatever. I take a deep breath and try to push whatever depressive episode is trying to get out of me back down into the pit of my stomach where it normally resides. Honestly, I hate how I can’t just get over stuff like this. I’ve never understood how people are able to do that, actually. Michael had once told me that he would rather have someone call him fat to his face than sit there and listen that person talk shit about someone else’s weight. I’m honestly the complete opposite, as awful as that sounds. I just literally cannot handle it when I hear someone talk shit about me, even if it’s just some passive-aggressive comment on how I dress or how pale I am or whatever.

I mean, Michael has a point when he says I’ll probably never see any of the shitty people in school again after I graduate, but even knowing that, I still can’t get myself to ignore them, let alone defend myself when I’m around them. I’m a serious coward. I always gather the exact right thing to say in my head, and then can never bring myself to actually say them. I’m literally New Jersey’s biggest pushover. Whenever they do shit to me or call me names or push me up against the lockers and threaten to beat the fuck out of me, because I’m always way smaller than all of them, I always take it to heart and end up overreacting, like I always do when--

“I thought I told you _not_ to wash that off.”

My heart skips a beat as I turn around to see none other than Richard Goranski him-fucking-self standing behind me, his big hands shoved deep into the pockets of his baggy camouflage pants. The corner of his lip tugs up into a smirk as he starts walking up to me, not breaking eye contact. Rich is good at keeping eye contact with people, especially the ones he likes to fuck with. It’s honestly kind of unnerving.

I pull my backpack out of the sink and pretend to fumble with the contents inside, “Where’s my homework?”

“Hey, I’m _talking_ to you, Tall-Ass!” Rich shouts, punching the wall, his pale fist landing inches away from my face. His knuckles are all scraped and bruised, which for some reason just make Rich more threatening to me. I jump, dropping my backpack onto the floor. Rich snickers under his breath as he walks up to my side, “You dropped something.”

I ignore him and reach down to grab my backpack, but Rich rushes over and snatches it away before I can grab it. He jumps up onto the sink to sit on it, which is disgusting, but that’s not the point. He starts rummaging through the contents inside, throwing some of them out and onto the floor. I don’t say anything.

“Damn, Tall-Ass. You’re quite the suffering artist, aren’t you?” Rich chucks one of my sketchbooks, and I watch as it skids across the dirty bathroom floor, coming to a stop after it slams against a stall door divider. Ugh.

I sigh, “Why do you call me that?

“Call you what?” Rich smirks and winks at me as he throws more things onto the floor. I honestly don’t know what he expects to find lingering in my backpack. If he was looking for something shady, he should’ve tried Michael. He’s got at least four marijuana pipes hiding in his backpack somewhere. As well as just straight up marijuana. I’m honestly kind of surprised the school hasn’t found out about that yet. He’s literally got a whole second pencil case for all the illegal pastimes he participates in during school. Then again, this is the worst school district in the state, so I guess that explains how all the school stoners and druggies haven’t been caught yet.

“You know what,” I say, trying to make eye contact with him, but looking away after only two seconds. Eye contact isn’t my strongest point. It’s actually probably my weakest.

“ _Oh_ , Tall-Ass?” Rich says, feigning surprise and examining the inside of my now empty backpack, the contents scattered all across the floor. I’m not at all looking forward to picking them all up when Rich finally decides to leave. If he doesn’t fuck with them any further, anyway. “Uh, duh, because you’re tall. God, Jeremy, I knew you were stupid, but damn.”

I pause and look away from him. Rich just laughs, “Seriously, dude. I would castrate every man on Earth if it meant I could be as tall as you. What are you, like, six foot?”

“What are you talking about? I’m five ten,” I say, looking at him with an eyebrow raised. “I’m not even that tall. I’m literally average height.”

Rich is one of the only people besides Michael that I’m able to talk to without stammering or pausing (with some exception, obviously, as evidenced by earlier today). Which is weird, because he’s Rich Goranski and I’m Jeremy Heere and people like us are probably never supposed to interact with each other in any way, shape or form. 

Rich slides down from the sink, so now he’s more eye level with my upper neck than my eyes. “Well, maybe if you weren’t so hunched over and scared, uhhh, all the time, you would be.”

I roll my eyes, “Well, how tall are you?”

Rich does that smirk again, “Short, but taller than your dick.”

I seriously don’t know what I expected. 

I roll my eyes again. Rich notices.

“Do you _wanna_ get hurt?” he sneers. “I don’t _think_ you wanna get hurt, but if you do wanna get hurt, I can hurt you.”

Rich is quite possibly the most violent person in the school. I mean, the solutions to all his problems are probably just beating someone within an inch of their life. I like to think that I’m a pretty nonviolent person. Well, actually, that’s not really true. I’m probably more like a violent person who doesn’t want to hurt anyone. So usually I just fantasize about punching people because I’m too awkward to ever confront them. Basically I just eat my feelings. Anyway, Rich Goranski is probably the number one person I want to punch.

I don’t know. Some people just have really punchable faces, and Rich is definitely one of them.

I look away.

Rich hops down from the sink and looks at all my things that he’d just thrown on the floor, as if he’s examining his work. He giggles as he walks over to the wall and leans against it. Ugh. I change the subject before he can, “I didn’t think you’d be into theatre.”

“Oh, I’m not. I hate theatre,” Rich says. “I mean, everyone does. Except for you and that girl you were hanging out with. What is she, your girlfriend or something?”

“Uh, no…?”

“Oh, right. You’re gay or something.” Rich wiggles his eyebrows and winks at me. I look away. “I mean, even if you aren't… she’s totally out of your league. If you’re looking for romance, maybe try Dustin. He’ll fuck _anything_ with a dick attached to it. And I do mean anything. Didn’t he fuck with your boyfriend last year or something?”

Jesus fucking Christ. “Michael’s not… _I’m_ not… why are you doing theatre, then, if you hate it so much?”

“Uh, duh, my best bro Jake’s doing theatre, and as his best bro, I’ve gotta be there to support him all the way. Fuck, man, if he weren’t doing it, I’d be sitting in the audience at that trainwreck of a play laughing at it with him instead. Dude, like, everyone’s doing it because someone else is doing it. For example, Jenna’s doing it because of Brooke, Brooke’s doing it because of Chloe, Chloe’s doing it because of Jake… I think you know why Jake’s doing it.” Rich winks at me again. Ugh. “You know. Us bros have to stick together. Too bad yours didn’t care enough to join, too.”

“Michael does yearbook, he couldn’t come even if he wanted to.” I mean, technically, he could’ve, because he just takes pictures for the yearbook, but Michael has a thing when it comes to being the center of attention. That thing being he absolutely fucking hates it. It’s total panic attack fuel for him. Michael joining theatre would pretty much be suicide for him because of that.

Rich walks up to a urinal and props his foot up against the wall, “Well, if I were you, I’d be pretty sure he just didn’t want to be around you. Which, who would?”

“You, obviously, because you’re still here talking to me instead of going home like a normal fucking person,” I say, only I don’t actually say that, just in my head, because if I said that out loud Rich would end my life right here and now. I heard once from Jenna that he carries a butterfly knife around with him. I mean, technically I was just eavesdropping when she said it, but still. Jenna may not always be right on her gossip, but when it comes to the threat of Rich Fucking Goranski walking around with a butterfly knife at all times, I’m not gonna try to confirm it. 

I sigh and look away as Rich starts to unzip his fly, and start to slowly walk away towards a stall to try and forget that he’s there for a few minutes. 

I hear Rich scoff, “You know, the only thing more pathetic than that is the way you’re sneaking off into a stall to get away from me.” Oh fuck. “Stalls are for girls, are you a _girl_ , Jeremy?”

I sigh and turn back towards Rich just as he whips his dick out, propping his thigh up in front of it as a half-assed attempt to hide it. Then again, knowing Rich, he was probably just trying to bring more attention to his… y’know. 

“Oh! _Christ_ …” I say, turning away from him. “Dude, how do you, uh, talk to people while you’re… uh…” 

“Confidence,” Rich says, grinding on the urinal. He sticks his tongue out and winks at me. Again. My cheeks burn. And he says _I’m_ the gay one. Rich pops out his ass and gives a suggestive smirk. 

“Like what you see?” He says, shaking his ass and keeping his stare locked on me. Jesus fucking Christ. I turn away as he starts to zip his pants back up.

“Can you just… uh… _not_ … do that, ever--” I’m cut off when I hear Rich scream. I jump and turn around to see him pressed back against the wall of the bathroom, his bruised hands gripping onto the edges of the wall’s pillar. His green eyes roll back into his head as he grips clumps of his thick hair and screams through his clenched teeth. For a second I actually think he’s dying.

I run up to him and grab his shoulder, “Rich? Rich!”

All of a sudden he snaps out of it and shoves my hand away. He takes a deep breath and slaps himself -- hard -- across the cheek. I actually flinch. His eyes are locked on the ground.

“R-Rich? Are… are you… uh…” I’m still kind of in shock. “Are you… okay?”

He doesn’t say anything. He just stands there, no expression present on his face. His eyes are blank, and his lips slowly muttering unintelligible words, as if he’s talking to someone who isn’t there. I literally feel chills go up my arms, leaving goosebumps in their place as they pass, as I watch Rich mutter to himself. 

“Well… okay…” I say, slowly beginning to back away from Rich, leaning down to pick up my sketchbook. I hold it close to my chest as I rock back and forth on my legs. “Uh, I just remembered, uh, M-Michael and I are supposed to… uh… go home now. So… see you tomorrow, man…”

“W-Wait! _Wait_.” Rich snaps, his voice a little shaky. He rushes over to me and digs his nails into my shoulders so hard I’m sure they’ll pierce through my skin. I drop my sketchbook as he pulls me down to his level.

His breath starts to shake as he looks up at me. “Y-y-you… you don’t remember me freshman year… do you?”

“Wh… what?” I say, trying to squirm away from Rich’s grasp only to be pulled right back in. “R-Rich, you didn’t go here freshman--”

“AHAH!” Rich screams in my face. I jump and forcefully pull away from him. He grabs my wrists and shoves me back against the same wall he had been spazzing out against just a minute earlier. His face is only a few inches from mine. I try to tense up my arms to keep them from shaking, but it just makes it worse. “Yes I did! Yes I _fucking_ did!” 

Rich looks down, his hands shaking, and his eyes subtly starting to tear. He blinks them away before it becomes obvious. “You just didn’t notice. Nobody did. Fuckin’ hell, I don’t even know why I bothered to ask.”

I don’t know what to say. I don’t even know what’s happening, honestly. 

Rich looks up at me, “Do you even remember seeing me in the hallways every day?” he yells, his hands starting to shake, probably out of anger, because Rich is probably the angriest person I’ve ever met. “Or in _class_? In the _cafeteria_? Literally _at all?!_ ”

Rich stares at me. It literally feels like he’s looking into my fucking soul.

“Okay, so no. I’m hearing no?” Rich sighs, looking down. “Figures. Even the biggest loser in the school used to walk right by me without a second thought.” Well, ouch.

“Freshman year… damn,” Rich speaks as if he’s reminiscing a traumatic memory that he’d rather forget, which I guess could technically be true for everyone’s freshman year of high school. I mean, for me, freshman year mainly consisted of me dying my hair twelve different colors at the same time while wearing neon velvet track pants and twenty rubber wristbands at once and begging my dad to let me get my septum pierced, to which he refused every time. Back then I actually debated running away, like a normal freshman would, but now? I’m so fucking thankful he said no. I’m pretty sure I also wore neon eyeliner to match whatever disgustingly bright outfit I was wearing that day. I was like a walking highlighter. Thankfully, that phase fizzled out in April of freshman year, when I finally realized how fucking stupid I looked. Now my wardrobe mainly consists of cardigans, way-too-big flannels and my dad’s old sweaters, which is much more fashionable, in my opinion. Michael once told me I dress like a 90s art freak, which is honestly the best compliment he's ever given me.

But Rich looks almost like he’s reliving a nightmare as he’s recalling his freshman year. “People fuckin’ hated me, man. For, like, no fucking reason. I was an easy target for all their bullshit, I guess, being the dumbass new kid who thought it would be a good idea to wear fucking Tripp Bondage pants on his first day at a new school. Because who would wanna be friends with that kid? Who would wanna fuckin’ date that kid? I was so fucking sad back then it’s pathetic. I’m pretty sure even my fucking _dick_ was depressed.”

“Oh, uh… sorry?” I attempt. I honestly don’t know how to respond to my high school tormentor telling me the dick he had been swinging around not five minutes earlier used to have depression.

“Fuck,” Rich stretches his arms and looks down at his Timbs. “I almost forgot how much of a fucking loser I was back then. Like, a bigger loser than you, which is hard.”

“Thanks, Rich.”

“No problem. To be honest, I don’t really know why I’m--”

And with that, Rich starts screaming in agony again, pulling his hair so hard I was almost afraid that he would pull out chunks of it. Rich starts to fall to his knees, and I catch him as he hits the floor, dragging me down with him. 

“Oh my God, Rich, what the hell?!” Rich convulses in my arms for a moment, like he’s having a seizure, and for a minute, I’m worried he’s actually having one. He jumps before going still, like a ragdoll. He slaps my arms away. He sits up, letting go of his hair, which now looks ridiculous, but he doesn’t acknowledge it. He takes deep breaths before looking up at me. For a second I think he’s going to punch me for holding onto him, but he doesn’t. He just stares at me for a moment, nods, and looks away.

“Look, Jeremy…” Rich backs away from me, standing up and actually offering me a hand to help me up. Against my better judgement, I take it, and I’m thrown to my feet so fast I almost fall right back onto the floor. I catch myself before I do. “I can’t believe I’m about to say this, but… I’m sorry. For treating you like human garbage all the time. I only did it because… my… my Squip told me to.”

“Your… what?” I’m confused. “Rich… are you… okay?”

“A SQUIP, dumbass!” Rich yells. “What, you’ve seriously never heard of them? I mean, yeah… they’re not really mainstream. Pretty far from it, actually, but you’re like, a huge nerd. I thought you’d know about weird hyper-futuristic Japanese technology like Squips.”

“I still have no idea what you’re talking about, at all.”

“Alright, well,” Rich looks around to make sure nobody’s watching or listening, like Dustin does before a drug deal, even though there’s nobody else in the bathroom, or probably in the school. Then he walks up to me and motions for me to come closer. I reluctantly comply. “It’s from Japan, like I said. It’s like this… er… quantum nanotechnology… CPU, I think? It’s this pill, and it’s got, like, a… uh, quantum computer in it that travels through your bloodstream until it plants in your brain and it tells you what to do. Literally. It creates a person and they talk to you. It’s lit.”

“What?” 

Rich sighs, “It talks to you. It’s like having a voice in your head. You tell it your objective, and it’ll tell you a bunch of ways you can reach that goal. Uh, so basically, like… if you wanna _not_ be a huge fucking loser all the time, you would tell it that, and it would help you, er… not be a loser, pretty much.”

I’m starting to question Rich’s sanity, which in retrospect I probably should have been doing about five minutes ago. Maybe he’s a really good, creative improv actor and he’s trying to hardcore mess with me. In which case, he should probably be on broadway instead of in a high school drama club he doesn’t even like. “There’s no way that’s possible.”

 _“SHUT UP, BITCH!”_ Rich shouts, slamming me against a wall. I scream, pressing my shoulders back against the cold tile, trying to stay as far away from Rich as I possibly can.

Rich’s face morphs from fury to surprise as he quickly lets go of me and backs away, “Sorry dude, old habits.”

“Oh… okay…” I slowly take deep breaths to try and avoid having a meltdown. There’s so much confusing shit going on right now that I don’t know what to think or how to react. “B-but, seriously, that can’t be possible. There’s no way that something that technologically advanced wouldn’t be all over the news or something. It honestly kind of seems like nobody’s ever heard of it before.” And by nobody, I mean Michael. He _loves_ creepy, futuristic shit like this. He definitely would have found out about it almost immediately if it were real, and he would have told me, because he loves telling me about weird, interesting shit like that more than actually finding out about it. I’ve never met anyone who knew so much about random shit like that other than him. 

“Yeah, well, that’s the point. It’s, like, top-secret, confidential stuff. You can’t even look it up on the internet.”

That sounds shady. Like really, _really_ shady. 

“So… how do _you_ know about it?” I ask. “And… if it’s so top-secret… why are you telling me?”

“My brother’s friend’s cousin’s boyfriend or something. And I’m telling you because I think you could use a Squip of your own. Well, technically, my Squip told me that. But I think it’s right.”

There are so many thoughts racing through my mind as I process what Rich just told me. If what he’s saying is really true, maybe this year won’t be such shit after all. Then again, I don’t really know how much I can trust Rich after all we’ve been through. I mean, this is the same Rich that, last year, told pretty much the whole school that I would get off to their sex gossip stories that are so obviously faked it’s almost funny.

“So… your Squip… told you to… be a dick to me?” I ask. “And to Michael?”

“Yeah. It saw you guys and basically told me that you were the ‘exact type of people’ to go after,” Rich says. “No offense, haha.”

I remember the first time I laid eyes on Rich Goranski. Me and Michael were standing against the lockers, talking about Mindless Self Indulgence or the roller rink or constellations or something along those lines, like we always do, when this short, buff kid with messy hair ran up to us and grabbed Michael and slammed him against the lockers. He yelled something in his face, which freaked Michael out, but of course, he didn’t really do anything. He just kept his eyes closed and kept his whole body tensed up until Rich threw him into my chest by his hair. He didn’t break eye contact with either of us as he stormed away, flipping us off as he went. I remember how pissy Michael was for the rest of the day after that happened.

“Huh,” I say. 

Rich nods, “Look, I know it sounds crazy, but seriously. Consider it. If _anyone_ needs a Squip, it’s you.”

“Thanks,” I say, not knowing whether it’s sarcastic or genuine.

“Pleasure’s all mine,” Rich says, stretching up his arms. “Hey, when you make up your mind, find me. I have, like, a ton of them. Just hit me up after english class or something. It’s six hundred--”

_“Dollars?”_

“Don’t interrupt me. But yeah, it’s six hundred. Dollars. It’s worth it, trust me. That’s such a bargain for what you’re getting,” Rich says, reaching down to grab his backpack. 

I stare down at my feet. I seriously don’t know what to think right now. Today’s been such a mess that my mind doesn’t know how to function, especially after hearing all the shit that Rich just told me. On one hand, if what Rich is telling me is actually the truth, then my five year streak of being known as the school loser could finally be over. But, on the other hand, if Rich is lying to me, which is more than possible, I’d become an even bigger laughing stock around the school for believing something so unbelievable. Like, if I actually give Rich Goranski six hundred dollars, which is more than likely going to come out of my already dangerously low college fund, when he’s actually scamming me… damn. I’d probably break down crying begging my dad to let me switch schools. And then again, to Michael, begging him to switch schools with me, because if I didn’t have Michael I’d probably just drop out of school altogether.

“No pressure, but, y’know. Think about it. You aren’t _totally_ a lost cause yet,” Rich says, swinging his backpack back over his shoulder as he turns towards the door. “This might be your last chance to turn your whole reputation around. Real life sucks losers like you dry, Jeremy. If you want to fuck with the eagles, you have to learn how to fly. So… _think about it_.”

Poetic. 

“See you around, bitch.”

“Dude. Wash your hands.”

Rich turns and his gaze catches mine. He starts to walk back towards me, and for a second I think I’ve just made a major fuck up and now he’s gonna beat the fuck out of me or something, like he’s done so many times before. But instead, he just reaches up and drags his hand down my cheek, like those couples do in the cliche romance movies, before slapping me right across the face. Not hard or anything. It’s more like an aggressive high five. On my face.

Rich runs away cackling like a maniac and literally body-slams the door open. I briefly hear him calling out to Jake down the hall, who’s still in school, probably to catch up with one of his other six after-school curriculars (that number is completely serious, by the way. Jake does Model UN and swim and football and probably a bunch of other shit. As much as I hate Jake, I have to admit, it’s kind of impressive how he’s able to balance all those extra-curriculars. He’s gonna have colleges on their fucking knees when he applies). Rich runs down the hall to him, genuine happiness spread across his face, and I already know he’s going to just jump right into Jake’s chest and completely knock the air out of his lungs, like he literally always does when he sees Jake in the hallways. I’d think it was sweet if they didn’t go out of their way to torment me and, more often, Michael, on the daily. I don’t know how Michael’s been able to survive this long with them pulling his hair and slapping him and calling him names and stealing his shit every day, by the way. I would’ve had at least six mental breakdowns by now if that were my situation. 

I pull on my cardigan and sling my backpack over my shoulder, and as I begin to walk out of the school, I realize that my cheek has indirectly touched Rich’s dick, and I’m uncomfortable the whole walk to the parking lot because of it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hey, quick note : i've started writing an expensive headphones fic, so these chapters may take a litttle longer to come out. i'm also experiencing HELLA writers block so. i'll try to balance both fics at once, but hopefully you'll enjoy the EH fic when it comes out lmao


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> woah, fast post. four days. new record?  
> this is kind of a filler but not really? i wanted to bring mr. heere into this and show more on michael and jeremy's relationship so..... here it is. the next chapter might take a little longer but i'll try to get it out by the end of the month.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> trigger warnings : mentions of divorce, abuse and suicide (implied)

Michael drops me off about a block away from my house, because he's running late for dinner and it’s a nice day out so I actually want to walk home, at least for a little. I could actually walk to school and back every day if I wanted to (and, at the end of the day, if it’s nice, I usually do). I live really close to Middle Borough High, actually. There’s just one big field outside of my development and a gravel driveway no one minds if I walk across and then seven trees exactly and once I walk over that short bridge that runs over the road I’m there -- so yeah, sometimes I walk. 

It’s weird to walk to school in Middle Borough, and basically Metuchen in general, because nobody does. According to social standards around here, if you’re a junior or a senior, you should absolutely have your own car and drive to school every day, or at least carpool with someone who does. Bonus points if the car is shiny and isn’t a hand-me-down from your parents or some other relative of yours. If you’re a sophomore and you’re Cool (with a capital C) then you ride with one of the aforementioned juniors or seniors. It also helps if you have an older sibling who drives you. That almost always guarantees Automatic Cool Person status (the only way it won’t guarantee you Automatic Cool Person status is if you don’t have at least a semi-cool older sibling. Last year, Michael and I would carpool with his brother Loren, who still is definitely not a Cool Person. At least in Middle Borough). If you’re a dorky, weird or overly-anxious sophomore, you ride with your parents. If you’re a freshman, you’re forgiven for riding with your parents, but by the time you hit sophomore status, you’d better have found some peers to give you rides. If you’re poor or your parents and friends aren’t up for driving you to school, you ride the bus. I’m actually probably the only person in Middle Borough who still walks.

I mean, I normally _don’t_ walk, actually, because, honestly, I’d much rather go on that five minute drive with Michael than walk for fifteen minutes in the sun by myself. I dunno. Michael just really lifts my spirits every morning, no matter how bad my day’s going before I see him. He’s there in his white PT Cruiser with the little skeleton dangling from the mirror and he’s got a blue raspberry slushie for me even though I didn’t ask for it and he dances in his seat to Weezer or Mindless Self Indulgence or The Cramps or Oasis or Matthew Sweet or David Bowie or whatever music he’s feeling that day as we sit in traffic while he tells me about this new scientific study on how shorter buff guys are always hotter than the tall ones or something. He’s literally the coolest person I know. Then again, I might be a little biased. I mean, this is the same Michael that threatened to kill some random creeper on the streets of New York because he catcalled me and then wouldn’t let go of my hand until we were back in Metuchen and glared at everyone who looked at me for more than two seconds. My opinion of him is at God status at this point.

Michael gives me a long hug, Robert Smith’s voice blasting through the speakers as Michael’s warm arms finally release me. I hop out of the car, turning around to give him a wave before he drives away, screaming “I LOVE YOU!” as his car turns a corner and drives out of my development. I smile. 

I look around my neighborhood for a while before starting the three minute walk back to my house. I’ve lived in this development for almost four months and I’m still not used to it. I used to live in a house a two minute walk away from Michael’s (I could even see his house from my front yard) that was nice and big and had a big backyard and a garden me and my Dad would take care of and a huge hill in the front where me and Michael would sled whenever it snowed before going inside and drinking hot chocolate by this huge brick fireplace while my Mom and Dad would talk about their divorce firm or some other middle-aged adult topic a few rooms down. I remember when they used to get along whenever we had guests over, specifically Michael. And his Moms, since my Dad’s been best friends with them ever since Michael and I started having nightly sleepovers when we were five. It was nice. Y’know, when they got along. I got to pretend that my family wasn’t completely dysfunctional and angry and sad all the time. I got to pretend that my Mom wasn’t an angry and abusive monster who once broke down my door to my bedroom because she was mad at my Dad, and she knew that my Dad would get more upset if she hurt me rather than if she hurt him, so she would always take out whatever anger she had with my Dad on me, and it would make my Dad break down every time and he would just hug me and cry while my Mom screamed at us. But even though my home life was hell with my Mom in that house, it was still nice, because I had my Dad and Michael and his Moms, who’re basically a second family to me at this point. Now it’s just me and my Dad, living four miles away from the Mells stressing over finances and trying to grow whatever plants we can in our 10x10 front yard and nonexistent backyard. But hey, my Mom’s not around anymore, and we got two cats, so everything worked out in the end, right?

Actually, not really, now that I’m thinking about it. But I’m getting sidetracked.

My neighborhood is pretty much just a huge development of townhomes and apartments that are full of shady and unpleasant individuals. Like, okay, for example, me and Dad live next to an escort who’s clients have, on multiple occasions, just waltzed on into MY house thinking it was my neighbor’s, because my Dad used to forget to lock the door a lot when we first moved in, and those clients would be confused as fuck when they walked into our living room expecting to see some scantily clad escort and instead were greeted by a lanky sixteen year old boy and his father staring at them with a mix of terror and confusion on their faces while Mrs. Doubtfire was playing on the TV for the fourth time that day. Once one of them even grabbed me from behind and smacked my ass because I guess from behind I look like a female escort. My Dad was so angry about that whole incident that he chased the guy out of our house with a kitchen knife. Fun times. I don’t think I’ve ever heard Michael laugh as hard as he did when I called him to tell him about that. 

It’s weird, because the houses aren’t even ugly, so you’d expect it to be nice, which is why we moved there. But it’s literally so shitty it’s unbelievable. It’s also so boring I can barely stand it. My old neighborhood had a lot of life, with parties and barbeques and mormon missionaries and Michael. Now, it’s just brick and wooden townhomes with the same window formation as far as the eye can see, which sucks. Nobody even tries to add any individuality to their homes. I mean, my yard literally stands out because me and my Dad planted a rose bush and a bunch of other plants and flowers there when we were trying to cope with the divorce and everything like that, because both of us love gardening and it actually cheered us up a lot. Everyone else’s yard is just evenly cut grass and, like, a single tree, maybe, if you really wanna get crazy. I think they think our yard is weird. But whatever. 

I unlock the door to my house and start walking up the stairs, the smell of dinner immediately filling my nostrils. Or, er, multiple dinners. I actually don’t really know for sure what I’m smelling, all I know is it smells _good_. 

“Welcome home, Jeremy,” Dad says from the kitchen. There’s four different full meals lying on the counters when I walk in. The smell. Jesus. You know how people do things when they get overly stressed? Like pacing around or squeezing a stress ball or something like that? Yeah, my Dad stress cooks. Stress bakes? I don’t know, he does both. My Dad’s always been a really good cook, so I don’t really mind, but we run out of food really quickly because of it, which isn’t exactly good for our money situation. But I mean, we definitely aren’t gonna be going hungry anytime soon, so I guess there’s that. “Why are you home so late? You didn’t get detention or anything, did you?”

Unlike most high school guys, I actually really love my Dad. Well, I mean, I’m sure they love their dads, too, they just won’t admit it, because it isn’t Cool, I guess. But I’ll admit it. My Dad’s probably the second-coolest person I know (first being Michael, of course. But Dad’s a very close second). I actually don’t get why people have to be so secretive about having a good relationship with their parents. Or why they think it’s cool to be a dick to them, actually. I think I’ve only yelled at my Dad like, three times in my whole high school career, and I’ve felt like an asshole every single time. I don’t know what I’d do without my Dad, to be honest.

“Oh, no. I, uh, decided to do theatre this year, and they had a rehearsal today. Um, I tried to call you, but you didn’t pick up,” I say, dropping my backpack on the floor and examining all the food left on the counters. Tomatokeftedes and Feta Me Meli and Galaktoboureko and Souvlaki. I guess Dad raided that Greek grocery store again. “Sorry, I should’ve texted you.”

“Don’t worry about it, Jeremy, it’s fine. I’m just glad you didn’t get a detention so early,” Dad says, tapping his foot as he waits for the oven to finish cooking more food. Dad’s usually fine with me getting detentions, as long as it’s after the first two or three months of school. I remember when I got detention for the first time last year, because Michael and I skipped gym class because neither of us were up for running fifty laps around the football field for an hour and Ryu Atborough found out and snitched to the principal about us and she slapped a detention slip onto both of us so fast you wouldn’t believe it. Dad ended up not caring at all, and helped cover for me when Mom confronted me about it. Dad’s cool like that.

“How was rehearsal?” Dad asks.

“It was really weird. My old friend Mark Jackson made fun of me the whole time. You remember Mark Jackson, right? And then my high school tormentor Rich Goranski told me about this Japanese pill that’ll supposedly make me cool,” I say, only I don’t say that, because if I do, I’m afraid my Dad’ll send me to a psych ward. I just go back to the default answer I’ve had locked and loaded since my high school career started -- “Fine.”

“That’s good. You have fun?” 

“Yeah.”

“That’s good too!” My Dad sounds genuinely happy for me, which isn’t exactly uncommon, especially nowadays, but it lifts my spirits anyways. My mental health hasn’t been the best lately, so whenever I tell my Dad that I had fun somewhere or I was feeling happy, no matter how small the reason was, he’d always be so happy about it, because I was usually sad all the time. It’s nice to see your father be happy for you about something, honestly. “Did you meet any new friends?”

“Um, I guess? Me and this one girl I met… uh, Christine… talked about Rent for pretty much all of rehearsal, so, uh, I guess that counts?” Christine is actually, like, the only person I’ve ever met I feel like I can talk to musicals and broadway and shit like that about. I’ve tried it with Michael, but he never really gets it. The only musical he kind of likes is Kinky Boots, and honestly, that’s probably just because it’s about drag queens and when we saw it Brendon Urie was playing the lead, and Michael was hyped about it because he’s got a huge fucking crush on Brendon Urie. But Christine’s, like, really passionate about musicals, which is nice. You don’t see that a lot anymore. It’s nice to see someone else who loves Mark Cohen as much as you do, y’know?

Side note, him and Roger were totally fucking during the whole course of that musical. 

“That’s great, Jeremy!” Dad says, smiling at me as he stares at the Greek Thanksgiving feast lying on our counters. “Ah, Rent… now, which one was Rent again?”

“The 90s New Yorkers who couldn’t pay their rent… uh, it had AIDS and diversity and Idina Menzel in it,” I say. Rent’s probably one of the hardest musicals to explain, because there’s, like, four different plots happening at once. You know, with Mark’s documentary and everyone being broke and Angel dying and everything. But I love it anyway. 

“Oh yeah, I guess that makes sense. I think I’m getting better at remembering all of your musicals, son,” Dad says. “Maybe we’ll go see one again someday.”

Dad and I used to go see broadway shows together a lot. Like, five or six times a year. I remember both of us being an emotional mess after seeing Dear Evan Hansen together and getting a ton of stares at the Port Authority because it looked like both of us had just come back from a funeral, being all teary-eyed and all. Now that we’re basically just above poverty status, seeing any type of show is basically no longer an option. When we first moved in, we tried to watch illegally recorded musicals together, but it’s not really the same. Now we pretty much stick to watching Seinfeld and Parks and Rec together. 

“What play are you doing?”

“Uh… A Midsummer Night’s Dream.”

Dad nods and goes back to cooking. “Shakespeare, right? Didn’t you read that play in middle school?”

“Probably.”

I don’t remember if I did, actually. All I can vaguely remember is when Michael started panicking because our eighth grade language arts teacher told him to read a donkey character in a play in a weird voice or something. So I’m just going to assume it was at least somewhat related to A Midsummer Night’s Dream.

“So… what did you do all day?” I ask Dad.

“Nothin’, really. Didn’t need me at the office, so I pretty much just took a nap and watched Seinfeld reruns all day.” Yeah, that sounds about right. “Then, I decided to make dinner, and, er… I got a little carried away.”

I laugh, looking around. “Decided to make dinner” has pretty much become slang for “I remembered we’re in financial crisis and had a panic attack so I decided to stress-cook” for my Dad, only he doesn’t know that I know that yet. 

“I mean… we have a lot of selections, I guess,” I joke. Dad laughs.

Dad goes back to cooking for a while, waiting for meal number five to pop out of the oven. I grab a Sparkling Ice and open it, tapping my foot, trying to think of something to say. 

“Uh… have you, uh… have you heard from Mom, at all?”

Dad pauses. “No.”

I’ve asked him that question nearly every day for the past four months and the answer is always the same. No. But for whatever reason, I keep asking it.

It’s weird, because a part of me is relieved that I’m probably never gonna see my Mom ever again, but another part of me just wants to hear her voice, even if it’s just for a little while. I mean, she was horrible to me and my Dad, yeah, but she was still my Mom. It’s hard to get over someone as present in your life as your Mom leaving it without ever contacting you again. 

“Sorry, kiddo,” Dad puts an arm around my shoulder, his Dad Senses seeing that I was getting upset. But I can tell he is, too. Ever since Mom left, Dad’s been pretty down. He never really goes out unless he has to and basically spends the whole day in a bathrobe without any pants on, which, yeah, is pretty concerning, but whatever gets him through the day. 

Not to say I reacted to the divorce much better. I mean, after my Dad told me that him and Mom were splitting up, I basically locked myself in my bedroom for a week and cried every second of the day because I literally thought the world was over or something. It was weird, because a part of me knew this was coming. I mean, the only reason my Dad married my Mom in the first place was because he got her pregnant with me when they were dumb college students studying law in Greece, and she begged him to marry her because being pregnant before marriage was seriously not okay in her family. They never really loved each other. I’m pretty sure they actually met the same night they hooked up. My Dad was just a confused twenty-one year old when I came into the world, which definitely didn’t mean he had the ideal marriage situation. Or the best parenting situation, for me.

When we moved in with Michael after my Dad got full custody of me and my Mom kicked us out of the house, Michael would get anxious if he left me alone for too long, because he was so scared I was going to hurt myself, which I guess makes sense. I mean, I did almost overdose while I was living with him, but that’s a story for another time. Anyway, I’m doing better now. Not much better, but better nonetheless.

“It’s fine,” I say. “I was just… wondering.”

“Alright,” Dad sighs. “Don’t get your hopes up, bud. I don’t think she’s ever gonna call.”

“It’s whatever,” I say. “I mean, I’d rather be around you than with her.”

Dad smiles. I can tell without even having to look at him. 

“Thanks, Jeremy,” he says.

I smile. I know he can tell I am without even having to look at me. “I’m gonna go do my homework.”

I grab my backpack and start to walk up the stairs, ready to hide away in my bedroom and binge watch The Office so I can forget about my shitshow of a school day.

“I’ll call you when dinner’s ready,” Dad calls after me. “Don’t forget to take your medication!”

“I won’t!” I say. Only I’m not going to take it, because taking double the anxiety medication I need every morning is quite frankly enough for me. 

The second I step into my bedroom, I walk over to my bed and fall back onto the comfortable mattress, grabbing a blanket and draping it over me, trying to forget about the mountain of homework I have waiting for me inside of my folder. My bedroom mainly consists of Panic! At The Disco and Beach House and Gerard Way merchandise mixed in with basically every broadway musical performed since the 90s. I mean, my dresser’s basically just a shrine to RENT. As soon as I look around I’m immediately comforted by all the familiar sights of my space posters and glow in the dark stars. I’ve always found space interesting, ever since I was younger. Trying to find constellations, looking for planets, watching the stars as the twinkle; it’s always been calming to me. If I was ever overwhelmed or stressed, I could look at the stars and everything would be okay again.

I think back to what Rich said in the bathroom, about Squips being super confidential and stuff. Maybe he only said that so I would be easier to fool, not knowing what a Squip was at all or something. Maybe it’s some weird Urban Dictionary slang, because I’m pretty sure weird Urban Dictionary slang takes up the majority of Rich’s vocabulary. I sit down at my desk and open up my computer, immediately closing the gay porn tab that pops up once I type in my password. I haven’t told my Dad I’m bi yet, and frankly, him walking in at an inconvenient time to see his son with a video entitled “Twink Gets (Consensually) Gangbanged in Prison By Two HOT Daddies” playing on his computer is definitely not the way I want him to find out. At all.

I type “squip” into the Google search bar. 361 results. Okay, cool. The first result brings me to this flash game on a Japanese website where you’re a small alien who can battle an opposing alien with your gigantic nose. That must be some kind of euphemism, but whatever. I play twice, learn how to win every time, and click back. The next four results are all eBay listings for a Beanie Baby called Squip, which is this small, blue squid. Huh. Okay. Cool? Maybe Rich is a closeted Beanie Baby collector. Probably not, yeah, but it’s fun to imagine someone as threatening as Rich Goranski going home to a bedroom stocked full of Beanie Babies every day. I click back and scroll until the results end and, lo and behold, there’s nothing there.

Fuck, maybe Rich was telling the truth.

Then again, he could just be trying to sound more convincing with his lie. I mean, he is trying to get six hundred dollars out of me. Squip or no Squip, giving Rich Goranski six whole hundred dollars just doesn’t sound like a good idea. Whatsoever. Knowing Rich, he’s probably gonna spend all of it on alcohol and Manic Panic hair dye and gold chains and black tar heroin. Maybe not that last part, but you get the idea.

I stand up and sigh. Maybe it all was too good to be true. Is. I guess I’m just doomed to be a loser or a geek or whatever new insult people come up with next. I’m pretty sure they’ve all made a list of them by now, actually. 

I fall back onto my bed, letting the covers and duvets devour me as I daydream about what life would be like if I wasn’t such a fucking loser.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> bmc just went to broadway and there's apparently a lot of changes in it. from what i've seen it looks AMAZING and since i'm seeing it in two weeks the next chapter may take a little longer since i'm gonna most likely end up adding stuff from the new show i like into older chapters and into future ones as much as i can. so. heads up.


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> sorry i've been gone for so long SKSKKS. i actually have two chapters to upload today to make up for my month long hiatus. anyway i don't like how this chapter came out but i like some parts so i'm uploading it. enjoy!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> tw // f*ggot slur

“Oh! You know where we should go? The Broadway Cafe! Have you ever been there? Because you would _looooove_ it! It’s this place downtown that has the BEST coffee you’ll ever have! I mean, I don’t really need caffeine, obviously, but it tastes so good I usually get it anyway! The whole place is decorated like an old theatre! Like, there’s old broadway posters _everywhere!_ It’s so cool, I love it so much! Plus, there’s always showtunes playing! Like, it’s the perfect place to hang out! Oh, they’ve also got this _awesome_ jukebox…”

You know, when I signed up for theatre basically against my will, the last thing I was expecting was to end up befriending a girl who is somehow more of a broadway geek than I am. But I mean, I’m not complaining. Far from it, actually. You never know how much you really need a person until they come around, and, quite frankly, Christine is just the boost of energy and good vibes I need at the end of the day. Especially after dealing with Rich Goranski jumping me by my locker and stealing my phone and taking almost six hundred pictures of his own dick with it. Ever since the whole bathroom incident, I actually kind of thought Rich would lay off with all of his normal antics. Nope. I think he’s trying to be even more of an asshole recently, actually, I guess to persuade me to get that Squip. And, I hate to admit it, but it’s kind of working. But yeah, Christine’s great.

We’re hanging out later today, since play rehearsal isn’t exactly the best place to have a conversation, you know? We got in trouble today for talking about how we both didn’t realize that the actor who played Mafala Hatimbi in The Book of Mormon also plays Mr. Hawkins in The Prom, and that was a huge realization for the both of us because neither of us expected a kind and soft-spoken high school principal in one musical to be played by the same man who was a vulgar Ugandan cursing out the Lord in another. Apparently that didn’t matter to Mr. Reyes, but I digress. The original plan was for us to go over our lines together, but both of us realized pretty quickly that wasn’t going to happen, so we’re just gonna hang out and talk about our broadway crushes or something. Actually, I might be the only one doing that, but it’s whatever. Every time I’ve tried to bring up how attractive I think Isaac Powell or Will Connolly or Taylor Trensch is to Michael, he has no idea who I’m talking about, but Christine for sure should know who those people are, so I’m just going to assume it’ll be better talking about it with her.

Anyway, today’s rehearsal was another mess. Chloe forgot who she was supposed to be reading for and Jenna wouldn’t shut up about how this girl Alora got suspended for trying to blow a teacher for a passing grade and Mark started yelling at Casey because he was playing the same phone game as him and Jonah somehow managed to break the microwave while making Mr. Reyes’ Hot Pocket and everything was just chaos the whole way through. But I managed to read my lines without stuttering too much, so I guess it wasn’t so bad. Oh, and Christine killed it, as usual. I don’t think she’s capable of slipping up on her lines. Honestly, if I didn’t know any better, I’d probably think she’d memorized her lines already (I actually asked her that today. She said she hadn’t even looked them over in her free time yet). Christine’s really good at making the rest of us seem talentless without trying to. It’s like her greatest skill, besides acting, of course. 

“We could also go to this garden by my house and walk around, since it’s such a nice day out. There’s always butterflies flying around there. We could try to catch them, you know, if you aren’t afraid,” Christine teases, winking at me.

“Oh come on, why would I be afraid of catching butterflies? I’m not that much of a wimp,” I say, mocking offense. Christine giggles.

“Jeremy, Casey dropped his backpack and you jumped so hard it looked like you were going to have a heart attack,” Christine says. 

“In my defense, it made a lot of noise,” I say, and it did. I don’t know what Casey’s carrying around in his backpack, but if I had to guess, it would be bricks. Actual bricks. 

Christine shrugs dramatically, “Yeah, well, if you got so spooked by a noise, I don’t know how you’ll do about something that flies and moves.”

“Christ.”

The two of us laugh. All of a sudden, out of the corner of my eye, I see none other than Jake Dillinger staring the both of us down. Or maybe it’s just one of us and I have worse vision than I thought. Either way, he’s looking in our direction, and I don’t like it. 

Then, after staring for what seems like an eternity, Jake starts to walk over to us, changing his stride like four times, trying to make sure he looks as cool as possible before one of us notices him. Or, er, Christine notices him, since I’ve been watching him out of the corner of my eye for a while now. When he gets to us he grabs Christine’s shoulder, shooting her a charming smile. That’s the thing I hate most about Jake. He’s got that kind of smile that immediately makes you wanna know a person, like you can’t help but feel some sort of attraction to them. Kind of like Casey’s, but ten times as worse. I remember how I was fooled when I first saw it. Sophomore year Jeremy thought Jake was a sweet guy who would probably be nice to befriend. That wasn’t a good day. Christine doesn’t seem to notice this yet, her cheeks reddening as she looks up at Jake, who literally towers over her by at least a foot. Probably more. “Hey.”

“...Hey?” She says almost cautiously, as if she’s not sure if he’s talking to her or not, even though his hand is on her shoulder. Or maybe she’s just kind of generally anxious because, you know, _Jake Motherfucking Dillinger_ , the most popular guy in the school, is talking to her. Because I’d do the same if Jake would ever talk to me in a way that wasn’t insulting.

“You were in that play last year,” he says. “Romeo and Julien. You were the princess.”

“Um, yeah, I was,” Christine chuckles nervously. “And it’s Juliet, not Julien.”

“Cool. Yo, didn't Julien die? I remember you dying,” Jake says. I feel awkward for being here, but I’d feel more awkward walking away. So I stay.

“ _Juliet._ And, yeah, I was,” Christine looks over at me with a confused look, like she’s asking me for telepathic advice on what to do here. I shoot her an even more confused look back, minus the telepathic advice, since I can’t figure out how to send any to her. Christine smiles at me before looking back up at Jake, waiting for his response. 

“Damn, that was depressing,” He says.

“Um. Thanks?”

“But you were… really good. Like, you were _good._ ”

“Oh, um, thank you!” Christine says, looking down, her cheeks going bright red. “That… that really means a lot, haha.”

Jake smiles, but mostly to himself, like he’s proud that he was able to compliment a girl without sounding super creepy. “Yo, can I say somethin’ stupid? When I saw you die in that play last year… that was like, the saddest thing I’ve ever seen. It was like, all the pressure I feel to be the best, at everything… suddenly felt so small. And when you got up at the end and did your victory dance--”

“Bow! It’s called a bow,” Christine laughs.

“Right, yeah. I remember thinking… ‘Damn. I’m glad that girl’s not dead… before I ever got the chance to know her.”

That’s literally the cheesiest thing I’ve ever heard. It’s also probably totally made up. Jake normally makes up these kinds of cheesy yet I guess kind of sweet stories to tell the girls or guys he has the hots for. I’m just assuming this is no different. I mean, me and Michael went to the play last year, and when we went, Jake was there, and lemme tell you, he was not paying attention to the play onstage at all. I very vividly remember him and his popular guy friends throwing things at everyone in the audience and making fun of everyone walking past them and Jake only paid attention when Romeo and Juliet started dying. So, yeah, I seriously doubt that Jake’s telling the truth. 

“Stupid, right?”

Yes.

“No! That’s…” Christine stares at Jake, like she can’t fathom what he’s saying. “That’s not stupid at all.”

“Cool,” Jake says, smiling again. “Oh, I’m Jake. Probably should’a said that first.”

Jake smiles down at Christine, bending over and reaching out his tanned hand, motioning for her to shake it.

“I… I know,” Christine’s face reddens. She takes his hand and begins to shake it, but Jake pulls it up to his lips and pecks the back of it. Christine’s face grows even redder and she giggles. I feel like a third wheel. “I’m Christine.”

“Cool name. Yo, some of us are going out after rehearsal today,” Jake says. “You should join. It’ll be way cooler with you there.”

“O-Oh, um, I’m sorry, I don’t think I can go. Jeremy and I are hanging out after rehearsal today,” Christine smiles and motions to me. I give a slight, lowkey uncomfortable smile to Jake. He shoots daggers at me from behind his eyes, his expression a mix of anger and jealousy. Christine doesn’t seem to notice.

“Really?” Jake says. His voice sounds almost threatening, at least to me. “That’s too bad. I was _really_ looking forward to chillin’ with you, Christine.”

Jake stares me down, a chilling smile curling at his lips. Oh my God, that stare. I hate that stare. It’s the same threatening stare Jake’s given me so many times before he jumped me in the bathroom or took pictures of me half-naked in the gym’s locker room or shoved me into a locker and left me there until Michael found me and broke me out (and by break me out, I mean that literally. The lockers in this school get stuck all the time, so basically, if you’re locked in one, your rescuer is gonna have to literally break the door open and risk detention to get you out). Whenever Jake stares at you with that stare, you’d better get yourself out of whatever situation you’ve found yourself in before shit goes down. And believe me, if there’s anyone who you don’t wanna have shit go down with, it’s Jake Dillinger. If you think Rich Goranski’s threatening when he’s mad, he’s nothing compared to Jake. I would know. I’ve experienced it for myself. And, frankly, I really don’t want to have to experience it again.

“U-uh, I mean… Jake, if you, um, if you really wanna go…” I stammer, searching for words that would get my point across to Jake but not offend Christine. “Y-you can, if you want to. Hang out with Christine, I mean. Um, i-if it’s okay with her.”

“Aww, really, Jeremy? That’s so sweet of you. You’re such a _sweetheart._ ” Jake says, feigning gratitude. “What do you say, Christine? Should we take this show on the road?”

“Jeremy, are you sure?” Christine asks. “You look really anxious. I asked you first, if you wanna hang out today, we can.”

Jake’s expression suggests he doesn’t like the words that just came out of Christine’s mouth. I bite the inside of my cheek and nod. “Y-yeah, um, it’s cool. I mean, we can always hang out another day, right? I-I mean, it’s not like I _don’t_ wanna hang out with you! I just--”

“Aw, Jeremy, I know! Are you really okay with--” I nod. “Well, if you say so, Mr. Sweetheart!”

Christine winks at me before shimmying out of the room. I’m not gonna lie, she actually looks pretty excited to be hanging out with Jake, which hurts a little, but it’s whatever. I mean, he is Jake Dillinger, Mr. Popular, the person who ninety-nine percent of people don’t have a bad word to say about. The other one percent being me and Michael, and Dustin on a few occasions, apparently. I guess it’s no surprise that she’s excited that he’s paying attention to her in a way that isn’t to insult or catcall her. I’m actually pretty sure Christine doesn’t know about any of that, now that I’m thinking about it. I haven’t known Christine for long, sure, but from what I’ve gathered so far, she has pretty strong opinions on slut-shaming and creepy teenage guys who objectify women and how everyone treats each other. If she knew the way Jake really acted, I’m pretty sure she wouldn’t be so happy that he’s talking to her. But I might be reading too much into this. 

I jump when I feel Jake grip my shoulder tightly as he’s walking out the door. I feel my heart skip a beat as I stiffen up, silently praying that he doesn’t try to jump me or steal my stuff or do whatever he likes to do to me. Jake bends down so his mouth is level with my ear, and I shudder, lowkey flinching away from him and curling in on myself, praying I’ll somehow disappear and reappear somewhere far, far away from Jake. Michael’s house, preferably. 

“You made the right choice, loser,” he says quietly, his hot breath slamming against the side of my face. I jump away from him, closing in on myself even more as I hear Jake storm away out the door after Christine. 

I sigh. I know I’m the one who suggested it, but the fact that Christine went with Jake so willingly is really starting to fuck with my emotions. Which is fun, of course. I sigh and push it to the back of my head, reaching down to grab my bag. 

“Hey, bitch, wait up!” 

I drop my backpack and turn around to see Rich Goranski literally sprinting towards me, grabbing my arm once I’m within his reach and holding onto it tight, like he’s afraid I’m gonna try to run away from him or something. But I’m not. I’ve learned my lesson when it comes to trying to flee from Rich Goranski. Ever since he pounced on me from behind and nearly broke my nose for lowkey trying to speedwalk away from him, I’ve decided it’s probably better off to just wait out his bullshit instead of trying to run away with the threat of being murdered, you know? Don’t ever underestimate the speed and fury of a five-foot-four ameatur bodybuilder like Rich Goranski, lemme tell you. You’ll lose your life.

“Um. Hey, Rich,” I attempt. It’s weird talking to him like we’re kind of friendly with each other. I mean, I’m so used to just not talking to him, you know?

Rich raises his eyebrow, his piercing shining under the auditorium lights, “Uh, hey. So… made up your mind yet?”

“About the--” Rich nods. “Uh… I don’t really know, man. It just seems kind of, um… sketchy?”

“Oh, it is,” Rich says. “But trust me, it’s totally worth the risk. I mean, look what it did to me. I went from not being noticed at all from being noticed all the time. Like, get this, I used to be invisible, and now I’m _not._ Cool, right? It could do the same for you too, Jeremy, if you would just take a chance for once in your life.”

I shrug, “I just… don’t get me wrong, I believe you. I just don’t know if I can, uh… manage to take it. Or afford it.”

I study Rich’s face as he thinks (I mean, that’s what I’m assuming he’s doing), looking for an indication of him getting a kick out of me supposedly believing his lie, but I don’t find anything that points to that. He looks like he’s genuinely listening to me for once. For a moment, I consider the possibility that he’s acting, but that thought fades pretty quickly. Rich hasn’t pulled too many schemes on me, and the ones he has haven’t been all too believable from the get-go. And he definitely hasn’t kept them up for this long. I’m pretty sure Rich gets bored easily or something. I don’t think he’d keep up the same lie for two days in a row. Or been this persuasive about it.

“Look, dude, if you’re skeptical about this, I get it. And, er, I understand if you don’t trust me. Honestly, if I were you, I wouldn’t trust me, either,” Rich says, tapping his foot. “But listen, I’ve got a hookup, if you’re interested. You know the PayLess Shoes at the Menlo Park Mall? There’s this guy who works there, you’ll know him when you see him, he’s got a ton of Squips for sale. You can just hit him up if you really wanna prove what I’m saying.”

I hesitate. I don’t know what to think of this. My brain just keeps battling over fantasy and authenticity, you know? On one hand, I really want to believe that the Squip exists, but on the other, it’s just… so out of this world it’s almost comical. But, I mean, Rich _did_ just tell me how to verify his story. Surely he wouldn’t do something like that if he was lying, right? I mean, yeah, Rich is pretty dumb, but he’s not _stupid_. If he is lying, he probably wouldn’t be telling me the exact place where I can get a Squip from someone who isn’t him. Then again, knowing Rich, he could just be trying to set me up so he can jump me. But based on everything that’s happened the past two days, I actually, for the first time, doubt that he’s trying to do that. I think he actually might be telling the truth. But I mean, he _is_ Rich Goranski, so… you never really know.

“Look, I get it. This sounds really unbelievable, I thought so, too. But it’s real, and you can see it for yourself, too, if you go over there,” Rich says, picking his backpack up off the floor and swinging it over his shoulder. “Seriously, dude. I think this could help you out, like, a lot. I saw what just went down with you and Jake and that chick he’s into. I’m just gonna tell you now, with a Squip, that shit wouldn’t happen to you anymore, trust me. So, you know, consider it.”

I nod blankly, looking down at the toes of my Converse as I once again start to process what Rich just told me. 

“Well, see you tomorrow, loser,” Rich says to me, slapping my arm on the way out. “Oh, by the way, I hope you liked those pictures. I thought a faggot like you would appreciate some more raw jack-off material, so I delivered. You’re welcome.”

I glare at Rich for a moment as he chuckles under his breath, walking out of the auditorium with a little more pep in his step than usual. Jesus.

I pick up my backpack and swing it over my shoulder, taking a deep breath as I walk out the door, thinking over all the shit that’s gone down today and wondering if switching schools is too dramatic of an approach when it comes to dealing with my problems with Rich Goranski.


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> ok quick disclaimer before we start : i'm going to vegas on april 22nd, so chapters eight and nine are probably gonna take a LOT longer than i thought (i'm currently working on chapter seven and hope to have it uploaded before i go). chapter eight especially is gonna take a while because that's where the squip comes into play and i still have to figure out how to write his speech. anyway, enjoy this chapter, i actually really loved how it came out lmseifbe

Instead of going home after rehearsal, I decided to take a small detour, since, well, my Dad's not expecting me to be back anyways. I actually texted him this time, and he seemed pretty happy that I was hanging out with a new friend. I feel like if I just went home and told Dad what happened, he'd be upset for me, or just upset in general, which in turn would make me upset, and that is definitely not what I need right now. So, instead of going home, I decided going to Michael's house would be a nice alternative.

Michael’s house has always been a second home for me. Ever since we became friends in kindergarten, I’ve pretty much spent half of every week in his basement watching horror movies or playing video games or watching vine compilations or getting high. I mean, I do all those things myself, too (except for getting high, because I don’t have the money to buy weed from Dustin, and I’m honestly too nervous to blow him in exchange for weed like Michael does. Like, I’m sure Dustin’s sweet and everything, but I don’t know if I could handle knowing that some druggie in my school had his dick in my mouth, you know? Like, what if he posts that somewhere? I’m probably reading too much into this, actually. Main point, I don’t blow Dustin for weed. But Michael does, which I’m pretty sure is some form of prostitution or something, but whatever). It’s just more fun to do them with Michael. 

His house is this reddish-brick two-floor with a bunch of rose bushes out front that I honestly wish were in my yard. There’s a huge apple tree out back that holds up our old treehouse that we used to basically live in. I remember when we were in first grade and were planning on moving in there when we got married, since we didn’t understand the concept of marriage and I guess thought it just meant living together or something. Little first-grade Michael was so adamant on us having dogs instead of children. He literally wouldn’t take no for an answer. Honestly, I’m still not opposed to the idea. I mean, come on, look me in my eyes and tell me you wouldn’t marry Michael Mell and live with him in a treehouse with sixteen dogs and a diet consisting of only Skittles. That’s right, you can’t.

I unlock the door to Michael’s house with the spare key I have hanging from the lanyard around my neck. Michael gave me it over the summer because I was technically living with him for two months. Even before then, I spent almost every day over there. I dunno. There’s just something about Michael’s house that immediately comforts you whenever you walk in. I mean, that’s probably because Michael lives there and Michael himself is very comforting, but my point still stands.

I walk down the stairs into the basement and step into Michael’s room, which is honestly the coolest place on the planet, at least to me. Old comic book covers and retro art prints line his walls and there’s music posters and plants and D&D dice everywhere and there’s always a half-finished painting on his easel and there’s always music playing from a record player or a cassette tape when you walk in and honestly it’s just a really chill place to be. The room radiates calming energy. Like, you can’t help but relax when you walk in. Then again, his room does smell like weed, so that could also technically be why.

Michael’s lying on his bed with two of his dogs, his red hoodie draped over them like a blanket, listening to the Oasis vinyl spinning on his record player. He spots me and smiles, sitting up.

“Hey!” he says, jumping off his bed and running over to hug me. Even after twelve years, I still can’t figure out if Michael’s constantly excited to see me or if he just really loves hugs. Either way, I’m not complaining. Michael’s hugs are always warm and strong and whenever he pulls away I’m left feeling like I’m loved and wanted by somebody, which is honestly the best feeling in the world.

“How was rehearsal?” Michael asks. His eyes are kind of red and puffy, which means that he’s either high or he just finished crying. Both are possibilities when it comes to Michael. “Weren’t you supposed to hang out with Kristi today?”

“Christine,” I correct him. “And, yeah, I was, but then Jake Dillinger asked her out to the mall and, well--”

“You just let it happen?”

“Uh, _duh_ , he’s _Jake Dillinger._ He’d probably put me in the hospital if I tried to argue with him.”

“I mean, I wouldn’t doubt that,” Michael walks over to his TV stand and starts digging around for a video game. “But still, you should at least try.”

“He was staring at me! What else was I supposed to do?”

“I don’t know. Nobody’s trying to snatch you away from me, so I don’t need to worry about all that shit,” Michael says. “But if they tried, they wouldn’t get very far. That’s all I’m saying.”

I smile. Michael finally pulls a game out of the stand and pops it into the PlayStation. He throws a controller at me and falls back onto the beanbag in front of his TV, motioning for me to come sit next to him. I do. It’s honestly kind of surprising that we can both fit on there, but hey, Michael knows his shit when it comes to buying beanbags, so I guess it’s actually not that odd. 

“Come on, Jer, it’s not like you’re never gonna see Christine again. Plus, you get to hang out with me, which is always cool,” Michael winks at me. I laugh at him. “Let’s just play video games.”

The opening theme for Apocalypse of the Damned plays through the TV’s speakers. It doesn’t surprise me that this is the game Michael picked. AOTD is this 90s arcade game that was formatted for Playstation a few years back. It’s really hard to find now, and if you do, it’s expensive, and I mean expensive. I’m pretty sure Michael got it in Japan or something when it first came out. Or maybe from some bootlegger on eBay. Actually, I don’t know where he got it. Now that I think about it, I don’t know where Michael gets pretty much any of the games he has. He’s not exactly one to go after the mainstream console games, you know? Maybe they just materialize in his room when he wakes up or something. Or maybe there’s an underground gaming black market that Michael frequents. It’s not completely unbelievable.

God. I have a love-hate relationship with this game. Don’t get me wrong, it’s really fun to play it. It’s basically this pixelated beat-em-up where you’re trapped inside your high school during a zombie outbreak, and you fight back using stuff you find around the school. Michael usually tries to hunt down the rare weapons, like Nerf guns and Moon Shoes and other trends that were popular and the 90s that AOTD decided to turn into weapons designed to kill zombie teenagers. My personal favorite is the skateboard. It’s actually really cool, it’s sort of like an RPG but also very much not like an RPG, you know? Like, there’s a story and you’ve got to fight a lot but it’s also just… not a typical RPG. Oh, and also, you can get bonus powers by getting high off weed you find in random dead zombies’ pockets. I love it. The thing is after level six it’s borderline impossible to advance in the game. Somehow, Michael and I managed to get to level nine, and pretty much spent the whole summer trying to beat it to no avail. Lemme tell you, those zombie teenagers in the Cafetorium are fucking _ruthless._ Michael’s moms actually took the game away for a while after Michael threw his controller back so hard he broke his window after he died right before the end of the level, which is probably for the best. At this point the game just frustrates us. But both of us are fixed on beating it, so I guess we’re stuck playing it together until we do.

I mean, we have a good thing going. Michael goes ahead of me and shoots everything with his 90s Nerf Guns and then I stay back and kill everything he didn’t by beating all the zombies over the head with a super trippy 90s skateboard. It works better than it sounds. I’m just pretty sure the game’s meant to be played by more than two people, since, you know, it was an arcade game meant for four people. I have massive respect for anyone who can beat the game on singleplayer. 

Normally, whenever Michael and I play AOTD, the rest of the world disappears and we’re so immersed in the game that we’re completely oblivious to whatever’s happening around us. Like, someone could probably break into Michael’s house and as long as we’re playing the game, neither of us would notice. But today, I can’t focus on the pixels on the screen at all. The only thing I can focus on is what Rich told me in the bathroom. Within twenty seconds, I’m dead, and the big, red GAME OVER flashes across Michael’s TV screen. He sighs and restarts the level.

“I need to ask you something,” I say.

“Shoot,” Michael replies, his eyes fixed on the TV as he fires at everything in sight.

“Do you think Rich is, like, actually telling the truth? About the Squip?”

“No,” Michael says immediately. He curses under his breath as his character dies. I think the beginning of this level is the hardest part of it, to be honest, which is weird. “Since when has Rich Goranski ever told you anything even _remotely_ true?”

“I don’t know,” I say, barely even paying attention to the game anymore. I can hear Michael aggressively spamming the buttons on his controller next to me. I told Michael about the whole Bathroom-Squip-Rich incident yesterday when he was driving me home, and it honestly just confused the hell out of him. At first, he actually thought I was messing with him, so I guess it’s not surprising that he’s so confident that Rich is lying.

“Never. The answer is never,” Michael slaps his controller and falls back slightly as his character dies again. “He’s scamming you, dude. Scamming you _super_ weirdly.”

“But what if he’s not?” I attempt. “Like, this could be huge! All I have to do is give the guy who torments me six… hundred…”

Michael looks at me and raises his eyebrow with a smirk.

“He’s totally scamming me,” I mutter.

“Mhmm,” Michael nods. “You can never trust a guy that hot, Jeremy.”

“Michael.”

“What? It’s the truth. I mean, this is the same Rich Goranski that stole your phone and used it to take dick pics before giving it back. Do you _really_ think he’s the most trustworthy person?”

“I mean, no, but…” I hesitate. “I don’t know. This is just… different than all the other times. He actually seems pretty genuine.”

“That just means he’s getting better at what he does best, Jeremy,” Michael says. “Fuck with people. You, specifically.”

I fall back slightly. Michael has a point. 

“God,” I sigh. “I’m doomed to be a loser ‘till the end of the world. No, probably then, too.”

“No way!” Michael pulls me closer to him in a side-hug. “Jeremy. Come on. You’re so fucking cool, you just don’t know it yet.”

“No, I’m not,” I reply. “You’re just saying that because you’re my friend.”

“No, I’m not. I’m saying it because it’s true. You know I can’t lie, Jeremy. You’re the coolest person in the whole world,” Michael says. “It’s just that no one else but me thinks that yet, because this is high school and it’s hell. We both know that. You know, you stray from the norm and you’re gonna get made fun of for being yourself. That’s just how it is,” Michael says matter-of-factly. He’s not wrong. “You’re just a nothing in this high school scheme, Jeremy, but it’s alright, cause you and I? We’re a team.”

Michael grips my hand in his as he says that, a warm smile creeping on his lips. It’s surprisingly comforting. I smile back and look down, before frowning again.

“I just… I’m not cool, Michael,” I shrug.

“Come on. We like out of print games, retro skates, we’ve got fucking _pac-man tattoos._ We’re the _definition_ of cool.”

I raise an eyebrow at him. Michael gives a slight smile in submission and grips my hand tighter.

“Okay, well, maybe not to everyone around us, now. Nobody in Metuchen knows how to appreciate any of that. But, guess what? In college, we’re gonna be _legends.”_

“You _always_ talk about college,” I laugh, and it’s true. Most high school teenagers dread the day the have to move out and fend for themselves and pay student loans and eat ramen for three weeks straight and the like, but not Michael. Michael’s hyped for college. We’re both trying to get into this art school in New York, and we’ve practically mapped out our entire future apartment. Dorm. Whatever we can afford, honestly. Whenever Michael gets made fun of for being this old-school analog or whatever people are calling him nowadays, he just brushes it aside by saying “Whatever. I’ll be cool in college.” or something along those lines. It’s honestly kind of admirable how he’s able to do that, because I definitely can’t.

“What can I say? College guys love retro shit,” Michael says. “And Apocalypse of the Damned. So, y’know. We’ll have automatic cool guy status.”

I chuckle slightly and shake my head, “But we’re not in college.”

“All the same,” Michael says. He wraps his arm around me and pulls me closer to him. “Listen, dude. I’ve got your back. I know shit sucks now, but listen, you’ve just gotta hold out for another two years, and then you’re home free, and the two of us are gonna be playing Apocalypse of the Damned in a fucking college dorm.”

“Yeah, I know, it’s just… two years is a long time, Michael.”

“I know. But I know you’ll make it,” Michael smiles at me again, and I feel myself smiling, too.

“Thanks,” I say.

My nerves relax for a while as Michael restarts the game and the two of us play, my brain finally focusing on the screen in front of me and allowing me to play for a while. But soon, my brain finds its way back to the Squip, and what Rich said, and it starts replaying in my head all over again. Now, I’ve been debating this whole Squip thing for almost the entirety of the day. Of course, this _is_ Rich Goranski, as stated before. The same Rich Goranski who, alongside Jake Dillinger, kept doing the finger-in-the-hole gesture right by Michael’s face during homeroom just to make him uncomfortable. The same Rich Goranski that’s fucked with me so many times before. But there’s just something _different_ about it this time, you know? 

“Hey, Rich said his hookup was at PayLess…” I think aloud. “What if we go there ourselves? Just to see if his story checks out?” 

Michael hesitates, before nodding blankly, twirling his finger around his spiraled headphone cord. I can immediately tell something’s off, just when I see his expression.

“Micah, are you okay?” I ask, resting a gentle hand on his shoulder.

“What?” Michael jumps a little bit as I snap him back to reality.

“You look nervous. Do you not wanna go or something? Because it’s fine if you don’t,” I say.

“No, it’s not that. I just…” Michael hesitates, like he’s afraid to say whatever he wants to say. “If this… _Squip_ … turns out to be real, and you take it and everything… and it… it works… will you be too cool for m--” Michael cuts himself off. “Video games?”

Oh fuck. I know what Michael was going to say. His brown eyes lock back onto nothing, and I can feel anxiety radiating off of him, and that just makes me anxious in return, because I know I made Michael anxious, and I hate it when he gets anxious, especially when I’m the one who makes him anxious, because that just makes me anxious. 

Okay, alright, listen, I think that ever since Mark Jackson completely dropped us and flooded the gossip Tumblr with secrets we thought he could keep and overall just betrayed us completely, Michael’s been terrified of losing another friend. Not just because of the trust factor, but because losing friends is just extra sucky for him, since, well, he doesn’t really have many. Neither of us do. I remember once he and Dustin got into an argument over something small and dumb and he broke down crying and panicking because he was so sure that Dustin was going to drop him (spoiler alert: he didn’t, because Dustin’s not an asshole). Michael’s anxiety loves to fuck with his emotions when it comes to stuff like that. You get into one tiny argument and his first thought is “Oh man! I just lost a friend! This is all my fault!” and that mindset lasts for a long time until he finally realizes he’s reaching a lot with that conclusion. I think what I told him about the Squip, and how it can supposedly make me cool and everything, it just doesn’t sit well with him. I mean, the “cool” people at my school aren’t exactly the most… _welcoming_ variety, and honestly? I don’t think Michael wants me to turn out like that. And I don’t want to turn out like that. To be honest, I kinda just wanna have people lay off my back, and hopefully Michael’s, too, and I want Michael to know that.

“Hey,” I say, wrapping an arm around his tense shoulders. They relax as he looks up at me with anxious eyes. “Micah, come on. You know I would never do that to you. You’re literally my fucking favorite person, I’d never get rid of you, and you know that.”

Michael smiles and chuckles a bit under his breath, like he’s trying to pretend he’s not. “Aww, Jer. Am I really your… _favowite pewson?_ ” 

Michael puckers his lips dramatically and jumps on me, trying to kiss me. I laugh and shove my hand against his face, pushing him away. His lips slam into my palm in a wet, slobbery kiss. I laugh again and slap his cheek lightly.

“Of course you are, you asshole!” I say. Michael wraps his arms around me and rests his head on my shoulder, his face glowing. It’s not the first time I’ve told Michael he’s my favorite person, and it certainly won’t be the last, but I swear, every time I tell him, his face just glows more. 

“So, you wanna come?” I ask.

“If it’ll make you happy, sure. I need to get outta the house anyway,” Michael says, sitting up and stretching out his arms for a moment before standing, pulling me up with him. “But, if this actually is a scam and I drove to the mall for nothing, so help me _God_ , Jeremy--”

“Calm down, if it’s a scam I’ll pay for your gas,” I say as the two of us walk out his bedroom door. 

“Well, you better pray this is legit, then. Do you even know how much money gas is nowadays? _Dude_ , oh my God, last night I was watching this conspiracy theory video about gas prices, and this dude was saying how the government’s trying to make us broke so we’re weak and can’t fend for ourselves so they can take over and shit, but I was _high_ , so…”

I laugh as I walk out the door alongside Michael and he starts up his car, my brain debating on whether going to this mall is a good idea or not as I fantasize about what life would be like if there was a supercomputer living in my brain.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ok i feel like i should just say as a small disclaimer that michael doesnt actually believe most conspiracy theories, he just finds them interesting to hear about and also likes to watch them when he's high lmaoaoodejhdb


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> hey! so, just to clarify, this is @therealjujuroseman. i changed my username like twice in the past three days so hopefully that's not too confusing! also, if you didn't know, the bmc broadway cast album was released today (may 3rd) so go give it a listen. tiffany snatched the soul out of my body. ALSO i'm currently in the process of editing chapter one, so be on the lookout for the update!

Now, Middle Borough is the definition of a basic boring, generic, New Jersey neighborhood without any major landmarks or anything worth visiting it for. But, if there’s any place within the town’s vicinity that would be worth coming here for, it’s the Menlo Park Mall.

The Mall is full of strange characters. For example, there’s this one old lady who rides around on a jazzy with a license plate that says “bingo queen” on it everywhere. There’s also this one really, really tall lady who walks around wearing a huge floppy sun hat every day, and it shades her face almost completely, so you can’t really tell who she is. It’s honestly kind of creepy. Like, that woman could be anyone. Once Michael actually told me that he thought she looked like one of those people on the FBI’s Top 20 Most Wanted list. He was joking, but the thought that she might actually be a dangerous wanted criminal on the run always immediately rushes back into my mind whenever I see her. But I digress.

Then there’s Karl and Troy. You couldn’t miss those two if you had your eyes closed. Karl’s this super tall, super sweet, super flamboyant dude who works in Sunglass Hut and who also wears super extra matching tuxedos and sunglasses every day. And by extra, I mean extra. I honestly don’t think that, in my two years of seeing him work at the mall, I’ve seen him wear the same tux twice. He also wears these obnoxious slide-on shoes that are _covered_ in glitter, and he always carries around this huge fold out fan that says “SHADE” on it. I’ve also heard that he carries a flask everywhere he goes, which I guess kind of makes sense if you see how chaotic the mall is on a daily basis. He’s one of those people most can only dream of meeting. Mainly because he seems like he would fit more as a cartoon character rather than an actual living, breathing young adult, but you know what I mean. 

Troy for sure works at Hot Topic. Um, I mean, I’ve never actually seen him in there before, but one look at him and you can tell that’s where he works. He’s this short, buff punk guy with a face full of piercings and a body covered in tattoos and a head with messy brown hair that’s usually dyed a bit on the ends. Like Karl, he has a pretty extreme sense of style. He wears these bright, shiny leather jackets that have even brighter patches all over them. Kind of like something you’d find in Michael’s closet, only sixteen times more fluorescent. I haven’t really talked with him much, or seen him talk to people in general, but from what I can gather, he seems pretty sweet. Sarcastic, sure, and a little hot-headed, but sweet nonetheless. 

Ever since I first started coming to the mall, I’ve always seen Karl and Troy together chilling around, either holding hands or cuddling together or visiting each other at their places of work or just full-on making out in the food court or something. It’s… honestly really cute, not gonna lie. Like, if/when I manage to get a boyfriend, I want our relationship to be something like theirs. Real, genuine, sweet, all of it. 

Right now, they’re sitting on the rim of the fountain, Troy leaning his head against Karl while he plays with his hair. It’s cute. They hang by the fountain a lot. I always see Karl tossing coins into it, so I guess that would make sense. I’m pretty sure eighty percent of the coins in that fountain have come from him at this point. Karl notices me and Michael and waves with a warm smile. We wave back.

I look away from Karl and Troy, my gaze finding its way to PayLess Shoes. It’s never looked more foreboding. Michael notices my stare and looks towards the PayLess, his expression drops for a moment, before it returns to normal. We head towards the entrance, open the door, and head in.

We walk into the PayLess, the smell of new shoes bombarding the air. I notice this tall, sketchy man leaning against the back wall. I mean, he’s wearing sunglasses and a hood inside, so I’m just assuming he’s sketchy, because no non-sketchy person wears sunglasses and a hood inside. To my knowledge, at least. Rich wears sunglasses and hoods inside, so I’m just gonna go with the assumption that this man is sketchy. He’s got a long beard, too, so he sort of looks like a viking. That doesn’t really matter in the long run, I guess, or add onto the fact that he looks sketchy, but I feel like that’s something I should mention. 

I point him out to Michael and he nods as we slowly approach him, awkwardly coming to a stop a few feet away. I look at him cautiously for a moment. He doesn’t react. I look over to Michael. He shrugs before shoving his hands deep into the pockets of his jacket, anxiously swaying on his feet. 

“Say something,” he mouths to me. 

I hesitate for a moment, trying to think of something to say. 

“Um…” I think aloud. “I like your sideburns. Wolverine, right?”

I literally cringe. 

Michael grabs my arm and pulls me back towards him, his expression screaming both confusion and secondhand embarrassment, “What the _hell_ was that?!”

“I don’t know! I panicked!” 

“Panicked about _what?!_ We’re in the middle of a crowded mall, what is he gonna do to you in a _crowded mall?!”_

“I don’t know! He looks scary! I just--”

_“Let’s see the money.”_

I jump back into Michael’s chest as the man speaks, not moving his stance. Michael bear-hugs me from behind almost protectively and stares up at the much-taller man with what I’m just going to assume is a mix of terror and confusion in his eyes, because that’s how I’m looking at him and I honestly can’t imagine looking at a scary man in sunglasses and a viking beard any differently.

“...What?” I say almost silently.

The man sighs and turns around, “Grey Japanese pill. Quantum nanotechnology CPU. Computer in the pill travels through your bloodstream until it implants in your brain and it tells you what to do.”

Michael’s grip on me tightens as he slowly pulls me back, another instinct, before stopping. I slightly relax, knowing he’s there, but one look at the sketchy stockboy and I’m back to internally panicking again.

“H-How… how did you know why I’m here?” I ask.

The man looks me up and down. “You look the type.”

My face burns. Michael pulls me back again.

The man looks at us and chuckles, “You’re also pretty much hiding in your buddy’s arms right now. Am I really so scary?”

He leans forward so his face is only inches from mine, and smiles. His teeth are all crooked and yellow and his breath _stinks._ Michael immediately throws me backwards and steps in front of me, which I’m pretty sure is just automatic for him at this point. The amount of times Michael’s jumped in front of me whenever I’ve found myself in some kind of trouble is insane. The man smirks at him.

“Well, aren’t you assertive?” the man laughs. “Calm down, I ain’t gonna hurt your little boyfriend. I am in a _crowded mall_ , after all. Now, you want your pill or what?”

My face burns. Michael hesitates before backing away a bit, still standing close to me. I pull the money out of my pocket. Four hundred. I was saving up for broadway tickets so Dad and I could go see Hamilton over the summer, but desperate times call for desperate measures, I guess. Besides, Hamilton isn’t closing anytime soon. Hopefully.

I shakily reach my hand out to give the man his money. He literally snatches it right out of my palm. “...Four hundred?”

“Um, y-yeah,” I say. Michael told me to give less than what Rich wanted, which is something I probably should have thought to do earlier.

“Is that a problem?!” The man hisses. Michael grabs my wrist. 

“N-no! Actually, there’s a guy at my school selling it for--” Michael digs his nails into my wrist. “Ow! Um, I mean, yeah, uh, if you insist. No problem.”

The man looks at me with this threatening expression as he takes the money out of my hand, not breaking eye contact with me. I look away. He turns around, towards this cart at the corner of the store, and digs around through a few boxes of shoes before finally deciding on one and walking back towards me. He shoves the shoebox into my chest as soon as he’s within arm’s reach. 

“...Ladies running shoes?” I ask, almost to myself.

“What were you expecting, fuckin’ dry ice?” The man taunts. “You gotta be inconspicuous when you’re selling shit like this. This is a PayLess, running shoes won’t draw attention. Do I really need to spell all this out for you?”

I look down without saying anything. Michael walks up behind me and wraps his arms around me in an attempt to comfort me. Or maybe protect me. The man sighs as Michael pulls away.

“Alright, now listen,” he says, looking around and bending down to meet our eyes. If he didn’t look sketchy before, he definitely does now. “Just so we’re clear, this is untested technology. And it’s not exactly legal, which is why you’re buying it with cash in the back of a shoe store. I take no responsibility to what you might do with it -- or what it might do to you.”

Michael steps up from behind me, “What might it do to him--”

“To activate it, you take it with Mountain Dew,” the man says, ignoring Michael’s question. He goes to ask another. _“I don’t know why.”_ I feel Michael’s grip on my shoulders tighten almost anxiously. “Just something with Mountain Dew.”

I nod, tightening my grip on the box. The man anxiously taps his foot for a moment, looking down at me and Michael, before speaking.

“Now, listen. There is a very, _veeery_ slight possibility of it malfunctioning, which could make it act… _strangely…”_ the stockboy hesitates. “So… if that happens… you need to deactivate it immediately, and to do that, you--”

I hear the door to the PayLess Shoes open as the stockboy immediately spins around, as if startled by the sudden noise, “WE’RE SOLD OUT!”

I turn around to see none other than Jenna Rolan standing in the doorway, her arm covered in shopping bags and a pineapple purse wrapped around her body. She looks behind her, then to me and Michael, before turning back to the stockboy, looking more confused than I’ve ever seen her. “Of… shoes?”

The stockboy sighs a breath of relief, “Oh, you’re here for shoes.”

Jenna stares at him with perplexion, “Its a Payless…” she mumbles.

“Yes, yes. My bad,” the stockboy laughs, before shooting his gaze towards Michael and I. “You two, scram!’

“Wait, you were saying something about--” I attempt.

“Oh, right. All sales final,” the stockboy laughs and winks at us as he walks towards Jenna, placing an arm around her and almost immediately having it thrown back towards him. The stockboy just smiles at her as she glares up at him. “Right this way, honey. We just got a killer pair of Crocs--”

“Don’t you call me honey,” Jenna snaps as she follows the stockboy towards the back of the store. Michael looks at me, this both confused and almost in shock at the same time. He hesitates for a moment before, without uttering a word, grasping my hand and drags me out of the PayLess and back into the loud, crowded mall aisles with him.

* * * *

Michael spins the pill around with his fingers, examining it from all angles for what must be at least the third time. “This is so…”

“Weird?” I finish his sentence as he squints at the pill.

“Yeah,” he nods, looking it over again. I guess he’s checking to make sure I’m not taking some weird type of ecstasy or something? To be honest, I don’t really know what he’s actually doing, but whatever it is, he’s really invested. “Damn. Who would’ve thought Rich Goranski would be smart enough to learn about something like this.”

“Yeah,” I agree, staring blankly at the pill. It’s grey and has this minty green tint to it, like a tic-tac. “This is safe, right? Like, I’m not gonna die if I take this?”

“Well, there’s only one way to find out,” Michael winks at me. My breath hitches for a second before he reaches across the table to grab my hand. “I’m kidding, Jeremy. I’m kidding. You’re gonna be fine, I promise.”

I hesitate before nodding, and take the pill from him. I spin it around in my fingers, “I hope this is worth four hundred dollars.”

“Four hundred and one,” Michael smiles. “Don’t forget the Mountain Dew.”

“Is… do you think this is actually… real?” I ask. “We should split it. You helped me get it, we should both benefit, right?”

“I don’t think it works like that,” Michael says. “Besides, if you’re really gonna be happier being cool or whatever you wanna use it for, seeing you happy will be a good enough tradeoff for me.”

I feel myself blush. Michael smiles at me. I smile back.

“Alright, well, here goes… “ I mumble as I pop the pill into my mouth and take a swig of the Mountain Dew. It falls down my throat and lands in my stomach.

Michael looks at me quizzically as he stands up and walks over to me, “How does it taste?”

“Minty?” I reply as Michael rests an anxious hand on my shoulder as I look up at him.

Michael smiles subtly, “How do you feel?”

“Like…” I hesitate. “Like I just wasted four hundred dollars. That I could have spent on Hamilton tickets.”

Michael frowns, “Nothing? At all?”

I shake my head.

“Um…” Michael thinks for a moment. “Try to say something cool.”

I look up at him. “I think I just blew half of my college fund on a wintergreen tic-tac,” I deadpan. Michael hesitates, before blankly nodding.

“Yeah… not cool,” Michael mutters. “Well… maybe it’s just warming up or something?”

I shrug, “Just… leave me alone. For a while. Please.”

Michael pauses, looking down at me sadly, before nodding, “Five minutes.”

He slaps me on the back of my shoulder twice before he starts to walk away.

I turn around, “Where are you going?”

“Check it out -- this guy in Spencer’s Gifts is selling a case of Ecto Cooler. You know, that Ghostbusters themed drink that Hi-C discontinued in the nineties?” Michael beams. 

“That can’t be safe to drink,” I say. “What does Ecto Cooler even taste like?”

Michael looks at me with this expression that implies I should already know what a retro Ghostbusters themed soft drink tastes like. “Uh, ghosts. Duh.”

Michael sticks his tongue out at me as he walks away. I smile. But only for a second.

As soon as Michael is out of my field of vision, I feel my eyes burn. Of course. I can’t even blame myself for it at this point. This isn’t another mental breakdown over losing a pen or tripping over my own feet in the hallway or not being able to draw someone’s eyes symmetrically. This is a mental breakdown over wasting four hundred dollars on a tic-tac. Four hundred dollars I had been saving for God knows how long.

I feel tears begin to fall down my cheeks, and immediately rub them away before anyone can notice. I grab my phone and try to play it off, only to see my teary-eyed reflection staring back at me. I panic for a second, looking around to make sure nobody was staring at me as I slowly stand up, looking around for somewhere to hide. I decide on the bathroom. I mean, it makes the most sense. 

I walk into the bathroom and stare at myself in the mirror for a moment. I splash some water in my face to try and clear my mind (and the red smears slowly going down it).

 

_Systems activating._

 

All of a sudden, I feel the back of my head explode into what I can only describe as the most intense, worst headache I could have ever thought of experiencing. It feels like my brain is collapsing in on itself. I grip my hair in my hands as I grit my teeth together, my whole body shaking. It’s almost like having a migraine, only it’s not. 

 

_Calibration in progress._

 

“What the HELL?!” I scream, looking around, expecting to see someone behind me, muttering to himself or his phone or something, but nobody’s there. I feel tears pushing at the back of my eyes as the pain intensifies.

 

_Please excuse some mild discomfort._

 

_“MILD?!”_ My brain feels like it’s _exploding._ If this is mild, what’s _severe_ supposed to be? That thought drifts away from my mind quite quickly as I feel my brain explode again, praying that I’m not about to pop any important blood vessels or veins or anything of the like. 

 

_Calibration complete. Access procedure initiated._

 

All of a sudden, the pain stops, and my brain goes numb. I take a few deep breaths as the room stops spinning, blinking the tears away from my eyes. 

 

_Discomfort level may increase._

 

“AAAAAUGHH!” I scream, as the pain shoots back twice as hard, and I feel tears escape from the back of my eyes as my head pounds. I clutch my head and bend down, crying and screaming, silently begging my brain to stop doing whatever’s making it feel like this. It’s like having the worst, most painful, most intense charley’s horse happening right in the back of your brain, only worse, and I want nothing more for it to end.

 

_Accessing: neural memory. Accessing: muscle memory. Access procedure: Complete._

 

The pain finally halts, and for a second, I feel a momentary calm, before the stall door behind me slams open, nearly making me jump right out of my flannel. I turn around to see none other than Jake Dillinger standing behind me with the most perplexed expression on his face. I feel my face burn red as I awkwardly resort to giving him a half-smile, before realizing that was probably the worst thing I could have possibly thought to do.

Jake stares at me, before letting out a single, extremely judgemental chuckle under his breath. 

“Freak,” he mutters as he walks out of the bathroom, just loud enough for me to hear, checking his phone with enthusiasm as he exits. I sigh and look down for a moment, before turning back towards the mirror to check that Jake wasn’t able to tell I had genuinely been crying.

I look in the mirror, and immediately jump once I realize I’m not the only one in the reflection. There’s a man there, standing at least a foot taller than me, with slicked black hair and a stubbly face and incredibly bright blue eyes -- almost like they were glowing. I freeze in place for a moment, as we just stare at each other, not saying a word, not moving, not breathing. Well, technically, I am breathing, because if I wasn’t, I would be dead. But him? I don’t know if he’s breathing. He’s so still, for a second, I think whatever super-migraine I had just experienced was making me hallucinate.

Then, the man opens his mouth, not breaking eye contact with me, and speaks. 

 

_Jeremiah Elijah William Heere. Welcome to your Super Quantum Unit Intel Processor. Your Squip._


End file.
